Fallout
by bookishy
Summary: Guy/Marian. AU after 2x13. Guy and Marian deal with the aftermath of killing the Sheriff.
1. Chapter 1

Turn against the Sheriff!"

Guy doesn't mean to look back, but Marian's command is loud enough to wake the dead, let alone alarm Vasey. He turns to warn her with a finger to his lips, only to find himself caught by the raw desperation in her eyes. Five seconds ago he was ready to walk out the door and let his back be an answer to her misguided scheme. But now . . . now he feels himself falling into that old familiar trap. He hates it. He loves it.

"This is your chance, Guy. Your last chance to be a good man," Marian insists, beginning to pace. "Well? What is your choice?"

Guy doesn't answer, just watches her stride back and forth in front of him. As always, her beauty is stunning, even more so now that she is fired up by her passion for saving king and country. Awash in the orange glow of the late afternoon sun, her skin is warm and rich and kissable. He can't keep his eyes from straying to her chest, from watching its seductive heave as she drags her chains behind her like unwilling pets. His resolve to remain silent breaks.

"And if I do this thing," he says, struggling to keep his tone mildly curious. "If I kill the Sheriff. You swear you will be my wife?" He hates the way he sounds—a beggar asking for water. God knows, he should be asking that she will vouch for him to the King, promise that all his plotting days are over. And yet…here he is again. Pleading for her hand before all else.

Marian stops and reaches out for his arm, but he captures her fingers before they reach their target. Her touch is dangerous. There have been moments when he would have given up everything just to keep her hand on his shoulder. She knows this; he realizes that now.

"I swear," she murmurs, gaze flicking downward to rest on their entwined fingers.

"Look at me when you say it," he barks, and her head snaps up. One look in her flashing eyes tells him that he has awoken her willful streak, the one that always rears its head when he gives her anything that could be considered a demand. He softens his voice. "You know why I ask, Marian. You have a habit of changing your mind at the last minute. You have a habit of tricks."

This time she meets his gaze boldly, directly. "If you save England, I will be yours."

His heart fills in one exhilarating rush. Still, he has learned to temper his joy when Marian is involved. Her eyes are weapons far sharper than the most pointed arrow. He would be lying if he said that he doesn't resent their power over him, just a little bit.

"If the sheriff succeeds, I will have untold power," he tries, letting his gaze linger blatantly on her lips. "Who's to say that I could not just take you by force?"

"Because that has worked so well in the past!" she scoffs, tearing her hand away. "Honestly, do you ever learn? You should know by now that I will kill myself before submitting to a man who had destroyed all that I have fought for . . . all that others have _died _for!"

He as much believes that she could stick a knife in her chest as he once believed she could give herself to God. "Marian, you can't be serious."

Her chin tilts up in defiance. "I am, and I will. After all, what would I have to live for? My father is dead. England is dead…" She shakes her head, cutting herself off as she steps forward. "But if you do this thing, Guy, you will have me as your bride. Willingly. You will have me as your wife. Willingly." She licks her lips and then reaches out to touch his face. Her palm is hot against his jaw. "And you will have me in your bed. Willingly."

A searing bolt of lust rips his body ragged. How many nights has he lain awake imagining just this? A willing Marian, a soft Marian. A Marian who loves him. Sometimes his fantasies don't even involve anything carnal. Sometimes it's only him and her and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest in the moonlight; it's her hair flowing across his pillow or the smell of waking up beside her; it's the idea of a quiet night spent in front of a flickering fire in a house that is all his on land that is all his.

"Please, Guy," she whispers, beginning to caress his jaw with her thumb. Her lips move closer, so close he need only tip his head forward to take them. He knows that this is a calculated move on her part—one more parry in a heady, complicated game. But now he is brave enough to risk challenging her to a game of his own.

He dips in for a kiss. In the past, this is where she turns her chin and leaves him with the cold exile of her cheek; or worse, where she slides her eyes to the side as if searching for a future far beyond his shoulders. But not this time. This time she meets him halfway, kissing him back with more fervor than he ever dreamed possible. Startled, he almost ends the embrace himself. Sensing his retreat, she presses her body forward until the weight of her breasts brush against his chest.

Tilting his head, he deepens the kiss, tentatively teasing her bottom lip with his tongue. No resistance. He pushes it further, and is shocked when hers meets his halfway. His hands slide to her waist, then lower, pulling her hips forward. A part of him wants her to pull back, wants her to lose even as he is wishing that the game will never end. But she doesn't surrender, only wraps her arms tighter around his neck as she runs her fingers through the curls at the base of his neck.

He's not naïve enough to think that she is blind to the fact that this is a test. But if this was a challenge to see if she is willing to return his affections, she has answered it. And won.

He pulls away first, breathing jaggedly as he searches her face for a clue to her reaction. Her cheeks are flushed, but her gaze is steady.

"I . . . see what is good in you, Guy," she says, answering his unspoken question. "I care for you. I know you can show me that I'm not wrong to have faith in you." She leans forward to whisper in his ear. "Show me."

Guy feels the last bit of his resistance disappear like a single drop of rainwater on dusty ground. This is madness. Despite her confident promises, he knows that changing course now will not be nearly as simple as she believes. Removing one cog in a mechanism doesn't stop it entirely—there are more who want to kill the King than just Vasey. The Black Knights will not simply disappear because they do not have a leader. A new one will rise.

It just won't be him.

He leans down and kisses her cheek. Then, taking his curved blade from its place near his heart, he presses it into her hands. "If I fail, use this against the Sheriff," he says before heading for the stairs that will take him up to the man he is about to betray, the man he has served for ten years. He turns back for one final look at his future. "And Marian?" he adds. "Wait here."

* * *

Marian hates waiting. To her it has always seemed like the last resort of stupid women too frightened to act on their own. Even as a child, the legendary damsels who sat waiting for shiny-haired saviors to push them out of the way of a dragon disgusted her. Never, she vowed, would a man determine her fate. When Robin rode off to war to find fame and glory, she ordered herself to put their love behind her; when the peasants were starving and the King was doing nothing to stop it, she became the Night Watchman; and when everyone else had failed to stop the Sheriff, she picked up a broadsword and aimed it right toward his slimy heart.

Even now, part of her longs to try again—to run upstairs, wrap her chains around his stubby neck and squeeze until his lifeless body slumps off the chair. But that is not possible; the shackles biting her wrists are a constant reminder of her uselessness. She is forced to wait.

Marian closes her eyes to better hear any noise from the upstairs room. Every once and awhile a snippet trickles down—the low hum of talk or the clank of metal—but then a wind rushes through the open windows and swallows it whole. If only she could be certain that Guy will follow through. Vasey has a sickening, poisonous hold over him that knows no comprehensible bounds. She half expects him to come back downstairs with Vasey and offer to stab her himself.

She often wonders what Guy would have been like if the Sheriff had never come into his life. Kinder, she supposes. Calmer. These thoughts only complicate Robin's mission, but try as she might, she can't stop them from creeping up on her in unexpected moments. Still, she has seen too much of his political side too early in their relationship—thoroughly unforgiving and fueled by a raw, grasping desire for power and wealth—to ever be in danger of losing her heart. If only he knew how unattractive it made him.

And yet she has never loathed him as she should. Not at all. Instead she is intrigued by him. She hates how a current of awareness hits her every time he enters the room. He watches her constantly, but what he doesn't realize is that she watches him, too, hoping to catch him in one of the rare unguarded moments where his smirking mask slips to reveal someone else entirely, someone who loves her with a boyish, love-struck intensity that threatens to overwhelm her at times. Try as she might to resist, a part of her is flattered. The same part, she imagines, that knows whenever Guy is near. The same part that once idly wondered what he would look like wearing something other than black.

A thud from the floor above startles Marian from her thoughts, and she jumps as it is followed by the raspy scrape of a chair and a muffled curse. Suddenly, the possibility of Vasey killing Guy hits her with the force of a cold bucket of water. If that happens, Marin has no doubt that the Sheriff will storm down from above and gut her with venomous glee.

There is a noise on the stair. Marian holds her breath as she stares at the blank rectangle of the door, waiting for the moment of truth. A black, leather-clad arm appears, and Guy stumbles into sight. Her heart soars.

"Is it done?" she asks him eagerly, dropping her weapon and running forward until her chains snap her back. "Is the sheriff dead?"

Guy doesn't answer, just slumps against the earthen frame, head bowed and eyes closed. His sword slips from his hands and clatters to the floor. Marian's eyes are drawn to the tip, which is stained a dark, dark red. "Guy?" she tries again tentatively.

"He is dead," he says sharply, and Marian feels uneasy. He looks stripped, shattered, broken—not like the victor of a battle at all.

"Are you positive?"

"Yes," he snaps. "What? Should I have brought you his head, _milady_?"

Marian is taken aback at the vehemence of this last word. "No, of course not," she murmurs, unsure of how to proceed. "The key," she says finally, holding up her imprisoned wrists. "Do you have it?"

Guy reaches to his belt and grabs the key ring, still with an air of distraction. As he unlocks her, Marian sees him wince.

"What has happened?" she asks, and then searches his body for an answer when he is still silent. There is a gash in the leather at his waist. "You are wounded."

"He had his sword ready. I was able to overpower him, but not before he scraped me along the side. 'Tis not deep; just stings."

Marian doesn't know whether to feel concern for his safety or relief that he has given her something to do. Grabbing him around the waist, she ushers him to the stack of abandoned sacks and forces him to sit. "Take off your shirt," she orders, and then sets to tearing long strips of white cloth from the bottom of her blouse.

He fumbles with the clasps on his gloves and then those on his outer shirt. When he finally pulls them off, revealing the grey undershirt that clings to his muscles, he hisses. A dark red spot blooms at his waist. Marian waits for him to remove this layer as well, but he remains oddly vacant. She takes matters into her own hands, tugging it up and over his head, taking care to gently peel it away from the wound.

Now that it has been revealed in its full glory, she hisses in her own breath. He's right—it's not deep. But it is long, winding its way from the front of his waist and curving around his side. Grabbing the small cup of water left over from last night's meal, she wets a makeshift bandage and then daubs at his wound, clearing away the blood, both fresh and dry.

Guy's skin flexes beneath her touch, and she hears his breathing become quicker, shallower. His left hand, which he has been using to brace himself as he leans back, tightens into a fist, sucking in the surrounding fabric like a waning tide.

"Kiss me." His voice is low and gruff, but she detects a hint of the soft vulnerability that sometimes appears whenever they are alone. A hand reaches up to cup her cheek, then twines behind her neck and pulls her forward. She feels the rough scrape of stubble as he places a hot kiss in the dip between her neck and clavicle.

She pushes his arm away. "Now is not the time. You're hurt," she insists.

He doesn't listen. "Prove to me that it was worth it," he murmurs, trying again.

She wriggles away from his grasp and turns to find his icy blue eyes staring daggers at her. His black hair swoops rakishly over one eye, his mouth thin and menacing. For one disorienting moment, Marian feels as though she's stumbled into the path of a starving, injured animal.

"Still, you reject me," he says, his voice half anger, half disbelief.

"I'm not rejecting you. You just surprised me, that's all."

"I've killed the one man who understood me—accepted me—and it is still not enough to win your love. Nothing I do is enough."

"That seemed to be more about my body than my love!" she snaps, and then swiftly tries to ease the conversation back to the positive. "Guy, you've saved the King! Does that mean nothing to you?"

"That was never my cause. That was your cause. That was Hood's cause."

Marian is caught without a response. She watches his eyes narrow as he studies her face for a reaction. When she doesn't reply, he stands up and stalks toward her. She expects him to try to force a kiss or a confession; after all, this is an old game of theirs, and one at which she is well practiced.

But he surprises her. He stops short, shaking his head like he no longer knows what he is doing, and then gives a harsh laugh. "I am a fool," he says, suddenly defeated. "And you are a liar."

"Pray tell me what I have done to deceive you!" she counters. "I do not pretend to have been entirely truthful with you in the past. But I have explained my reasons to you for that."

Guy's expression is highly skeptical. "So you would maintain that there are no longer any secrets between us?"

His proximity has become claustrophobic. Marian escapes, moving to play with the bandages. "I do," she says as she absently loops one over her forearm. "I would not feel comfortable becoming your wife otherwise."

"Of course. Tell me, would you have been so eager to martyr yourself to me if Hood were still alive?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Allan all but admitted it to me."

"Admitted what?"

"Your feelings for our resident outlaw."

Marian feels a flash of rage. The little thief! And after she all but saved him from Robin's knife. "Allan knows nothing of my feelings," she says tightly. "He is rash and ridiculous. He thinks farting metaphors are the height of conversation."

Guy doesn't answer, just takes the limp bandage from her hand and begins to dress his own wound with sharp and angry movements. When he is finished, he just stands there, looking at her like a piece of fruit turning rotten right before his eyes.

"I wish you would not glare at me so," she says to fill the silence.

"You've never cared how I glared at you before," he mocks. "Perhaps you feel guilty."

"Once you inform me of what I am being accused, Sir Guy, then we may talk about guilt."

"You love Robin Hood!" he yells, the words exploding out of him with the force of black powder. Now that it's out, he seems as stunned as she.

The usual glib lies crouch on the tip of Marian's tongue, ready to rush to her defense. But at the last moment, they fail her. His desperate desire to hear the truth, painful as it is, disarms her.

"At one time I loved him very deeply," she says softly.

Guy is taken aback. "At one time?" he echoes.

"Yes. But I have promised myself to you."

"Because he is dead."

"No, because you have proven yourself to be a man I could care for." She wants to put an end to this talk of Robin, which only draws attention to the aching well of loneliness that swells up in her stomach every time she thinks of him dying thousands of miles away from her.

Guy studies his hands with feigned disinterest. "So you claim that you would choose to be with me, even if Hood were alive?"

Marian considers herself practiced in the games of manipulation and courtship, but right now she doesn't know which one they are playing. Still, whatever the reason for Guy's obstinacy, she'll be damned before she lets him win.

"Yes, I would."

Guy smiles, mean and feral. "Good. Because he is."

Marian's entire body freezes, everything except her heart, which gives two sharp thumps. "Lies like that are cruel," she says stiffly.

"This is no lie. The Sheriff received word yesterday that Robin Hood and his band of outlaws had been spotted in the Holy Land."

The strength to stand escapes her, and Marian feels her knees begin to buckle. When the world has stopped spinning, she finds that he has crossed to stand beside her, that his arm is holding her up and she can feel the warmth of his bicep pulsing against her arm. But his voice, when he speaks, is cold.

"You betray yourself."

"Am I not allowed to grieve the passing of an old love?" she asks when her composure returns. Inside her mind is racing frantically, wondering how she can get word to Robin. See Robin.

Guy must see something on her face, for he gives a short laugh. "Marian, end this farce. You will not marry me. You have used me as a tool to advance your own ideals, and my heart has dumbly let you do it." His mouth quirks in a self-deprecating smile as his gaze slides to her chest. "My heart and other things. They kept me from seeing the truth."

"And what is the truth?"

"The truth is that you are cold—all plots and ideas and stratagems. You may be passion and spirit on the outside, but inside . . . inside you are just as conniving as the Sheriff."

"That is unfair," she says shortly. His words have pricked something loose and wild that threatens to bubble over and consume her.

"Is it?" He pulls her closer. "Tell me, there were numerous occasions for you to escape the castle, and yet you kept coming back. Why, Marian?"

"I was of more use there!"

"No. I think not." She feels him smooth back her hair, feels his warm breath on her ear as he leans in to whisper. "You like tormenting me. You like the lies. You like seeing my desire for you, knowing that you will never give in. You tease yourself with the possibility of giving in, tease me." He moves in closer. "That night you came to see me at Locksley…I thought you were just using me, playing the innocent to buy your freedom. But now I think 'When has Marian ever played the innocent?' She plays the temptress, the charmer, the affronted lady, the dutiful daughter…but never the innocent."

"What is the point of this?

"The point is that perhaps you are not as in control as you think. Perhaps you are just as addicted to this game as I am to—"

Marian can take no more; she covers his mouth with her hand to stop him from speaking. The softness of his lips brushes against her palm. "You do not know me at all, Sir Guy."

His strong hand clamps around her arm, freeing his mouth. "Do I not? I know that you will not marry me," he says, and then raises his eyebrows at her glare. "Oh, you may swear prettily that you will now—and you may even mean it. But we will not make it to the altar," he predicts bitterly. "We will not even make it to the King. Now that you have your way, you will run off to find your shining lord and not even look back at the person you chose to trample."

The accusation hangs between them for what feels like an eternity. Marian is silent as the steady weight of his words presses down upon her chest, smashing all of her ideas of love and duty to pieces. He may not be right about her intentions, but his words resonate in her bones, bringing to light that which she has always tried to keep hidden under the heaviest rock. She has taken his heart, torn it in two, shook it, stomped on it, and then thrust the remnants away from her. She has treated him as her own personal fiefdom, to conquer, control, and then leave barren when she is done with it. She has convinced herself that because he does not share her same ideals, his feelings are worthless, inconsequential. And yet he has been more loyal to her, to the ridiculous idea of _them_, than she has ever been to anything in her life.

When she finally finds her voice, it comes out as barely a whisper. "How can you love such a woman?"

The question catches him off guard. His words, when they come, sound more like those of a defeated man than an ardent lover. "I don't know. But I love her more than reason or sense. I love her courage, I love her strength. Even when it is pitted against me." He shakes his head. "Marian, there is nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you. Believe me, I have tried."

Used to her silence and his unrequited feelings, Guy brings his hands up to rub at his eyes, exhausted. When he lowers them, one brushes her palm. Her fingers tingle. Her shoulder, next to his bare one, tingles. Her body, next to his sympathetic one, tingles.

Guy is lost in the dark corridors of his own thoughts. Because of this, he barely notices when she gives into her impulse, wrapping one hand around his and sliding the other over the broad arc of his shoulders. But he does notice when she turns his head toward hers, leans forward, and places her lips against his in a heartfelt kiss that breaks down every barrier she has ever put between them.

His shock soon gives way to confusion, suspicion, and finally, wonderment. He pulls back. "Marian, what are you doing?"

This is madness, she thinks, but there's no changing course now. "Proving myself to you," she whispers and then kisses him again.


	2. Chapter 2

There are things that Guy will never say

In the fleeting seconds before Marian kisses him again, Guy's last thought is one he knows he will never share: _And to think that he had almost not gone through with it_.

Guy had left Marian with the best of intentions, this is true. And yet with each step up the stairs to the dim chamber above, with each step away from the disorienting muddle that is and has always been Marian, his resolution to kill Vasey had become less and less steady. By the time he was standing behind the man, Guy no longer knew what he wanted—not now, not ever. He had stood there dumbly, fingers on his sword, tracing the ridges and valleys of its hilt as though they might hold the answer. For once, he was his own man. And he had no idea what to do.

In the end, it was Vasey who decided. No doubt put on edge by Guy's silence, the sheriff had whirled around and lunged at him, dagger drawn. Guy had swiftly stepped to the side, catching it along his waist instead of deep in his gut. Vasey had stumbled, then, and Guy had used the small window of time to prepare for the next attack. But instead of charging again like an irate bull, the sheriff had braced himself against the doorway and laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

"So she finally got to you then, did she?" he had gasped when the mania passed. "I should have killed the little bitch years ago. A fall from a horse, a push from the castle wall . . . or, hell, lusty, murderous brigands on one of those forest paths she likes riding so much. It would have been the easiest kill in the world, especially once the old windbag was gone. But I always thought there were bigger threats than one two-faced leper with a hero complex. Foolish of me, really, all things considered. Bringing her here was a blunder, that's for sure," he said with a snort before rolling his head towards Guy with a sly smirk. "I hope you two are happy together. Just don't say that I didn't warn you when she's out in the woods swyving every archer with a few stolen coins in his pocket. I'll give you a tip: check her hair for leaves every now and then."

And then it was over. The sheriff had lunged at him again, and Guy, lost in a morass of rage and panic and guilt and suspicion, had no trouble running him through. It wasn't until he saw Vasey crumpled at his feet in a pool of blood that only seemed to grow and grow and grow that he began to shake. After pulling his sword free, he had gone to the nearest chair and collapsed. How was it possible for ten years of planning, ten years of gritting his teeth and pandering to one man's every foolish notion, to end in such a silly, stupid rush?

Guy sat with the weight of Vasey's dead stare upon him for what felt like eons, although the few beams of sunlight creeping in from between the latticed windows never moved. In his fall, the top of the sheriff's robe had parted, exposing the grizzled chest of a man much older than he seemed. Guy had stared at it, uncomprehending. Vasey's existence, his mere _persistence _in the face of so many plots and schemes to take him down_, _had always been proof that Guy was following the right course.

And that was when the full weight of what he had done hit him. As if on cue, the gash along his side sprung to life—a searing reminder of his betrayal that he could not outrun, not even as he stumbled down the stairs and came face to face with the woman who had brought it all about. The woman who was suddenly treating him like a hero now that he felt less like a hero than ever before.

He had wanted to stop thinking, needed to stop thinking. But when he had tried to lose himself in the touch of Marian's hands, the softness of her lips, in _her_, she had backed away. He had snapped, blurting out every dark suspicion, every niggling thought that had been lurking in the back of his mind since she ran away from him at the altar over a year before. He had wanted to trap her in her lies, the way she had once trapped him in his.

And it had worked. Even lost in a fog of guilt and astonishment, he had seen her become more and more agitated with every barb he let fly. It was like watching a castle wall slowly crumble, and he observed it with the same sort of awe until he realized that he may have finally succeeded in driving her away for good. By exposing her lies, he gave her no reason to stay. The only thing Guy could think in the few splintering seconds before Marian kissed him was that this was the end of everything. _Everything._

But now that she kisses him—kisses him, still—that doesn't seem true at all; it feels like a beginning. His brain urges him to think, to try and decipher her game, but he can come up with no pragmatic solution to this particular puzzle. Vasey is already dead. The truth is on the table. There is nothing here demanding attention that she would rather divert. This is real. _Real. _

He clutches her closer, wrapping his arms around her back in an embrace. She makes a noise low in her throat, and for a second he worries that he has been too forceful. He relaxes, tries to retreat with one last gentle brush of his lips against hers, but she brings her hands up to cradle his face, pulling him back forward.

She lifts her heels to deepen the kiss. The silky, soft slide of her body against the bare expanse of his chest is almost more than he can take. Her shirt is in tatters from tending to his wound—the wound that he is fairly certain is bleeding once again, not that he cares. When she sinks back down once again, what is left of her blouse bunches up at her waist. He realizes with a start that he is touching bare skin, that the flat planes of his stomach are inches away from being in contact with hers. Inspired by a rush of desire, he moves his hand up, up, up. Up beneath the folds of cloth caught between them, and up over the gentle bump of her ribcage. His thumb brushes the bottom of her breast for one blissful second before he feels the palms of her hands pressing against his chest and pushing him away.

_Apologize_, he thinks as she stares at him, her cheeks burning a hot, bright red. It is what he has done in the past when he has gone too far, too fast. But then a part of him balks at falling back into old patterns so quickly. The part that also wonders if the reason she drew back so quickly was because he was encroaching on territory already explored by another

"I will not apologize," he says defiantly, and then winces at how much he sounds like a recalcitrant boy who has just been found with his hand on the gate of an empty animal pen.

She seems startled by his abrupt shift to the defensive. "Apologize? "You just . . . startled me, 'tis all." She is fidgeting, smoothing her clothing back in place and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She refuses to meet his eyes. Her own zing around the room, finally alighting on his waist. It begins to throb as though she had reached out and poked it. "We need to do something about your side."

"It is nothing."

"You are bleeding. Still."

"I would rather continue what we were doing before," he says and steps forward. He watches her eyes widen—just a fraction, but it's there. He is beginning to realize how hard she works to conceal her reactions to him, both good and bad. Right now he cannot tell if she is tempted or disgusted. Her next words shed no light on the question.

"We need to think about the King," she says, ignoring his proximity. "We must get word to him that a plot has been foiled. There are other Black Knights, yes?"

"Yes."

"How many are here in the Holy Land?"

"That is not your concern."

"Not my concern?" Marian asks, nearly shouting. She brings a hand up to rub her temples before speaking again. "Listen to me, Guy. There is something that we need to be clear on if we are going to be . . . together."

"And what is that?" The question comes out cold and dark. He is still trying to recover from the sharp jab that pierced his heart when she struggled with that last word. _Together._

"You must not shut me out of the political side of your life," she says heatedly. "I will not have you shove embroidery in my hands and tell me to go sit in the corner while you meet with powerful men behind heavy oaken doors. And right now I will not have you tell me to wait patiently as men converge to put in jeopardy all that I have worked so hard to protect!"

Her eyes glitter with righteous passion. She is no longer hiding anything from him, he realizes, and it is a dazzling, seductive thing. How is that he finds her infuriatingly headstrong and utterly fascinating all at once?

Marian mistakes his silence for refusal. "I will not be your trophy or your trinket," she says, temper flaring even higher.

"You should know by now that you are none of those things to me," he says solemnly. She raises an eyebrow in disbelief, and he is forced to amend. "You may have been once, but not now."

"Really? I would have thought that possessing me would be the perfect pin to jab in Robin's side."

That name. Again. His anger extinguishes the last spark of his previous elation. "Leave Hood out of our conversations from now on, Marian, or I swear…"

"You swear what?"

He has no answer to that, much to his shame. He looks away and crosses his arms over his chest. The light has shifted, although he still can't tell if it's been hours or minutes since he returned from upstairs. His sense of time has disappeared along with all of his others. When he turns back, Marian's pursed lips tell him that she is still waiting for an answer. "Any matters that I ever kept from you were only in the interest of your own safety. The political world is not a safe place for a woman."

She tosses her head in disdain. "Which one of us is hurt now?"

"Because of your scheme!"

Marian opens her mouth as if to say more, but is cut off by the clatter of hooves from outside and the hushed conversation of two men. "Who is that?" she asks.

"Vasey's conspirators," Guy says flatly. The time for reckoning has come. He walks to where his clothing lay and drags it back on, wincing as he draws it over his side. The undershirt is stiff with blood, but the leather will hide the evidence of his previous violence.

The men walk through the door before he has time to close it all the way. One has wrapped himself from head to toe in red silk, the other in clothes as dark as his own. The first man leans back and surveys the scene.

"Enjoying the prisoner, I see," he says, casting a knowing eye at Marian's torn clothing that causes her whole body to stiffen. Guy offers up a silent prayer that she will play along and not say anything rash.

"Why are you here?" he asks, walking over to his fallen sword and stooping to pick it up. Adopting what he hopes is a casual air, he wipes the bloody tip against his clothing. Luckily the men's attention is still turned toward Marian, who is now demurely pondering the ground as though too embarrassed to meet their eyes. Perfect. He repeats his question.

"Yes, sorry," the man in red says. "We are to go for the King now, are we not? That was the plan Vasey outlined for us. Is he upstairs?"

"Of course," Guy says, motioning for them to go before him. He plans to take them out on the stairway, where the narrowness will prevent them from grabbing their weapons and turning back to defend themselves. It is not foolproof, but it is the best he can come up with on short notice.

With one last lingering look at Marian, the men turn and make their way toward the staircase. Marian meets Guy's gaze over their shoulders, shakes her head, and mouths something indecipherable. He cocks his head to the side. Visibly frustrated, she tiptoes quietly to the corner and picks up an earthen jug that has been collecting dust in the corner. For one confused second, he finds himself wishing that she would wait to get a drink until after the immediate threat has been taken care of. By the time he figures out her plan, he can only watch, horrified, as she creeps up behind the man in red and smashes the jug down upon his head.

The man's companion twirls around at the sound of shattering clay, his drawn sword cutting a clean and deadly arc that Marian evades by only a few inches. With a curse, Guy charges forward and wraps an arm around the man's neck, spinning him toward the wall. He hits it hard; the crack his head makes when it connects echoes throughout the room. The man is dazed enough that Guy is able to easily slip forward and twist the sword from his hand. Taking him by the neck, Guy brings his own sword up and prepares to plunge it down into the smaller man's heart.

"Guy! Stop!"

He looks back over his shoulder to find Marian tearing down the pale green curtains and tossing them toward him.

"Don't kill him—knock him out! We will shackle one, and tie the other one up. Then we will take them to the King." She gives him an annoyed look that can only be a pale reflection of his own. "It is good to have proof when you cry treachery."

Guy doesn't answer, just turns toward the gasping man and knocks him unconscious with one forceful backhand. Marian looks vaguely surprised.

"That was easy. Usually it takes several tries."

"Several tries for what?" he asks as he bends over and drags the man closer to his companion.

Marian shakes her head. "Nothing. It was silly of me." She gestures to the gauzy curtains. "We need to make these into bindings."

"You could tear more strips from your…clothing."

Her neck tightens, and she looks at him as though he has sprouted a second head. A hideous one.

"It was a jest," he says, embarrassed.

"Oh." If he were ever hoping for her to say something more in the line of a pardon, it is in vain. She bends down and tries to tear a long strip with no success. "Get your claw," she says.

"My what?"

"Your blade. I dropped it over there."

After he retrieves it, they make short work of the curtains. Guy binds the feet and hands of the unconscious men, and make sure their gags are tight, while Marian affixes the shackles. When they are done, there comes a second where there is nothing left to do but look at each other. Marian offers him a brief smile, which soon turns rueful when she takes in the state of her clothing.

"This will not make my word account for much, I'm afraid," she says. "Is my trunk upstairs?" she asks.

At the mention of _upstairs_, Guy freezes. He does not want to think about _upstairs _ever again. He doesn't feel himself standing up and moving, but the next thing he knows he is looking at the wall.

"I will get it," she says softly from behind him before her soft tread moves away toward the stairs.

When she returns, carrying her familiar green dress with red wings at the shoulders, he watches her closely for signs of distress . . . a pale face, hands that tremble . . . but there is nothing. She shakes out the folded costume then turns to fix him with a hard look.

"I need to change," she says. Her eyes flick upward, and he is gratified to finally see a hint of unease. "I could not do so upstairs."

He grudgingly turns to face the wall and studies the intricate patterns weaving their way through a hanging tapestry to distract him from the shy rustle of a skirt, the soft wisp of fabric hitting the ground. "We need to bury him," he says when all the tapestries in the world fail to keep his mind where it should be.

"He does not deserve to be buried." Her voice is sharp and unforgiving.

"He deserves that much from me."

She says nothing. He hears the slide of clothing falling into place and then a muffled curse.

"Will you help me?" she asks, annoyed. "I am unable to reach the ties at the top. Clothing should not require two people." She crosses the room and presents him with her back, pulling her hair over one shoulder so he can see the small green laces that divide her upper back into pale diamonds of skin. When his knuckles accidentally brush against one in the course of tightening, she sucks in a sharp breath.

He feels a stab of anger. One second she kisses him passionately, the next she acts like his touch is leprous. "We will bury him, Marian," he insists again, tying the top sharply. She will accept this decision from him at least.

There is a pregnant pause. She turns around to face him, looking directly into his eyes. "Fine," she says gently. "We will bury him. But please, Guy, not now. We need to see the King. We need to make this right. Are you ready?"

Seeing the King will never make this right, and he will never be ready. There is a good chance that leaving this room will only confirm what he has suspected all along—that he has ruined his life's work for the illusion of happiness. And yet despite all of these thoughts, all of his dark predictions of ruin and abandonment, his heart latches onto one thing, one thing that causes him to tell Marian that yes, he is ready to go see a King he does not respect, to right a wrong that he never felt was wrong to begin with.

_We need to make this right_, she said. We.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for all the nice reviews for the previous two chapters! So, plot turns out to be a little more difficult to write than kissing. I've tried to pick up where the show left things, but it's very possible that there are some mistakes. Much like the show itself, this fic is historical-ish and geographical-ish.**

* * *

As they ride through the noisy streets of Acre, Marian sees Robin everywhere. He is in every shadowed face, every walk, every flashing grin. Color of skin, style of gait, cut of clothing . . . none of it matters. A peddler tries to capture her attention with the bright bright glow of summer fruit, and it is Robin. A turbaned figure raises his head as she trots past, and it is Robin. A hearty shout swims up from behind her, and even though the language is guttural and foreign, it is Robin. The road is a trickster, and she falls for it again and again.

Each illusion brings the same pitiless arc of emotion. It begins with a relief so strong and pure that Marian fears she will light up like a torch for all the world to see. He is alive, _alive_! Guy has said that he lives, but she will not be satisfied until he is standing before her to see and feel and touch.

After relief comes fear. How does she begin to explain her decision? Speeches have been running through her head since she and Guy mounted the horse that would take them to the King. _Robin, I have something to tell you. Robin, I thought you were dead. Robin, remember how much you love England? Robin, I'm not being funny, but… _Nothing will sound right, and nothing will make it any easier. But she knows that he is noble, she knows that he will understand that it is all due to circumstances beyond their control. Fate had larger plans for them, that's all. They will both move on. They will remember what was between them, and keep it in their heart like they would wrap a keepsake in silk and place it in a secret box beneath the bed.

Marian wishes that the feelings would stop there. But if she is being honest, there are other emotions nipping at fear's heels: guilt and shame. Guilt for not enduring Guy's touch the way a woman in love with someone else should, for responding to it. Shame that, in the brief seconds before Guy's hand startled her by trespassing on new territory, she forgot that she was doing what was right instead of what she wanted.

Now, she must hold on to him or risk falling off the horse into the dirt—otherwise she would put as much distance between them as possible. She is thankful that she only has to face the broad black expanse of his back. It gives her time to remind herself of what she knows about him without finding herself under observation as well. He is greedy, she tells herself. He is treacherous and mistreats those without the power to boost him to power and position. He kills without remorse.

If she is being honest, her heart is not in this last one. She never understood his relationship with Vasey, although she had always assumed it to be rooted in cold ambition. Vasey was his path to wealth, and so he followed him. But just as his flashes of unwavering devotion have surprised her before, so does his reaction to killing a man who she would have killed a thousand times over again without a single flinch from her conscience. There are so many things about him that she does not understand, so many things that she does not even know if she wants to. It's like opening a locked chest only to find a million more metal chests winking up at you from inside.

It still confounds her that he had refused to reenter the room where the body lay, had become severely distressed at the idea of leaving him where he fell. She, on the other hand, would have liked to drag the body out in the sun so it would rot faster. But then her feelings had shifted; she had found herself wanting to comfort Guy more than continue a belated revenge on Vasey. Even now, she fights the urge to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance. To run her fingers through the small curls at his neck that she has been forced to stare at this entire ride. _That is not comforting, Marian_, her body whispers. She tells it to be quiet.

They near the edge of the city; the buildings surrounding them shrink to single square boxes, and the cerulean sky above grows larger piece by piece. Marian peers over Guy's shoulder. The white tents of the King's camp are small yet bright in the distance. Men hum around the perimeter, the red crosses on their breast like tiny drops of blood against a vast white sheet.

It will take less than three minutes to reach at full gallop, but Guy's horse slows instead of picking up speed. He has been silent their entire ride.

"Guy? Are you ready?" Marian repeats for what she feels must be the thousandth time today. When he doesn't answer immediately, she leans forward and places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it lightly. His head turns at her touch. She stares at the sharp line of his jaw, the strong, almost hawkish, profile.

"I hate that man," Guy says. For such a loaded statement, his voice is strangely resigned.

"King Richard?" He twists around to face her as much as he is able, which causes the horse to shift irritably beneath them. His thoughts about the stupidity of her question are plain on his face. "Well, you don't have to marry him," she says peevishly. "We are here to sing songs of your bravery in saving his life."

Guy lets out an undignified snort, but leaves it at that. He spurs the horse forward with a sharp command and kick of his heels. Marian holds on as the wind catches tendrils of hair; earlier, she tried to pull it into something more respectable to no avail. She is nervous; Robin's admiration for the man has her halfway expecting to meet God himself.

They begin to slow as they near the camp, the clouds of sand at their feet diminishing to tiny puffs. It is difficult to see anything over Guy's shoulders, but she notices that a few of the King's men have drawn their weapons upon their approach and are now on their guard. Guy lifts his elbows and shows his palms in a sign of surrender.

"I am Sir Guy of Gisborne, and this is Lady Marian of Knighton. We are here to see King Richard."

The guards share an uneasy look before one of them, young and blond with only a wisp of a beard upon his chin, speaks up. "The King has had several visitors today. What is your purpose?" His voice is thin and high—he is barely more than a boy.

"Sir Guy has averted an attempt on the King's life," Marian says, ignoring Guy's sharp look. "But there is still danger. We would beg an audience with him immediately."

A ripple of surprise runs through the men. Is the plot so surprising, or is it just that they haven't seen a woman for a long time, much less one that uses words every now and then?

A swarthy, pock-marked man steps forward. "Another one?"

At first Marian thinks the heat is playing tricks with her mind; she is in one of her heaviest gowns, after all, and she feels as though she is sitting directly over a campfire. "What do they mean?" she asks Guy.

Guy holds up a hand, bidding her to hold her tongue. When he opens her mouth to speak again, he yells over her to the men, ignoring the sharp jab she gives to his uninjured side. "This was a plot of Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham. He planned to impersonate Saladin and execute the King at their upcoming meeting."

Guy's words send them back to their huddle for a good minute before they come to a decision. As one disappears into the maze of the camp, presumably to announce their presence, the previous spokesman walks over to their mount. "This way," he says, motioning them forward.

They walk slowly through the camp, and Marian can't resist the small thrill that comes from the opportunity to observe the workings of this exclusively male world. Soldiers linger in the shadowy maws of tents; they talk in twos beside horses and tables covered in fractured armor and broken weapons. For the most part, they are also very dirty, hair mussed with dust, streaks of grime traveling from cheek to neck to collar. She can't quell petty part of her that asks: This? This is the world that Robin left her for? It does not seem all that exciting.

She ponders this for the rest of the ride, frowning until they stop before a large tent decorated with various banners and ornamentation. A soldier with bright blond hair and the familiar red cross across his heart ducks out to greet them, hand on his sword. When he raises his face, Marian can't stop a gasp. In front of her, Guy stiffens.

"Sir Guy," Carter says. "Lady Marian." His eyes flick back and forth between them like a man with two keys and no lock in sight. The last time he saw Guy, there was no doubting that he was the Sheriff's man through and through. And the last time he saw her . . . well, she was living in the forest with Robin. He turns to Guy. She holds her breath.

"I need to take your weapon," he says. He does not accuse them of anything, or even think to ask Marian if she has any to hand over. He just waits as they dismount before saying, "The King will see you inside."

Guy walks in first; she and Carter follow. Sunlight sneaks through the open flap and illuminates the tent's contents—the tapestries at their feet in the reds and blues and purples of summer berries, the central wooden pole covered with glinting shields and armory, the trio of men who stand silently before them. The one in the center moves forward. Stocky and square-jawed, he does not wear a red cross, only a flowing white robe that is pristine compared to the dusty garments of the surrounding men.

Marian realizes with a start that she is standing face to face with King Richard, ruler of England. She curtsies. Beside her, Guy dips into a low bow with a murmured greeting, the very picture of a loyal servant. Marian doesn't know why she worried about him; Guy has never had a problem being obsequious.

"My men tell me that you claim to have foiled a plot," King Richard says, bidding them to rise. It sounds good-natured enough, but Marian can hear the well of suspicion beneath his words. She tries not to be annoyed that he addresses himself to Guy. And only Guy.

Guy clears his throat, and Marian's nerves stand at attention as she watches the corner of his jaw twitch. But when he speaks, he sounds clear and confident. "My Lord, I recently learned that the man I had served for many years—Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham—was conspiring with your brother John. He recently arrived in the Holy Land with the intention of killing you." Guy meets the King's cool blue gaze with his own. "The only way to stop him was to kill him instead. You will find his body in an upstairs room in the town of Acre, along with two of his conspirators."

"Where in Acre?" Richard asks, and Guy directs him to the place where Vasey's body lay. The King turns and whispers to one of his personal guards, causing the man to bow and leave. "I hope you do not take offense," he says once the man is gone, "but we need to confirm your story. I cannot be too careful these days; there are many who wish to thwart our current peace with Saladin. Several of my most loyal friends have turned against me. One is from your own village, I believe."

Guy nods sharply, still tense, but in the corner of her eye, Marian sees Carter shift uncomfortably. When he speaks, his deferential words are barely able to contain his frustration.

"I beg your forgiveness for repeating my earlier thoughts, My Lord, but I sincerely doubt that Robin of Locksley and his men have plotted against you. I beg you to reconsider your previous sentence."

Marian speaks before she can think better of it. "What sentence?" she asks, her emotions rising when the King stares at her with what she can only quantify as surprised disdain. "My Lord, Robin of Locksley is perhaps your most loyal follower. He and his men have done nothing but protect the people of England in your name. He has worked against Vasey every single day in the year since he returned to Nottingham, forfeiting his own lands and wealth in order to better serve the country, the country of _your _people," she finishes in a rush. She turns to inspect Carter's face for a clue—anything—to tell her what has befallen him. Her voice cracks on the last question. "Is he here?"

But it is not Carter who speaks next. "And who might this lady be?" King Richard asks after a tense pause.

Guy's voice is frigid. "Lady Marian of Knighton, my Lord."

"And what is her relation to these matters?"

"I am his betrothed," Marian says, determined to end this discussion of her as if she were a lost item of clothing in need of claiming.

"Who's betrothed?"

The question hangs in the air, and Marian realizes that she has made a grievous miscalculation. Carter and the King watch her, waiting for an answer. Guy, however, refuses to meet her eyes. His teeth are clenched, his arms stiff at his sides. "Sir Guy's, my Lord," she says quietly.

King Richard turns to his last remaining guard. "Please find a free tent for Lady Marian and escort her there."

"My Lord, I apologize for speaking so hastily," she tries, wanting to atone for her previous outburst as she sidesteps the guard who tries to take her arm. "But I do feel that—"

"Do not worry yourself, Lady Marian. Please let the guard know if you need anything. We are a camp full of men, but we should be able to manage a few feminine comforts."

He smiles at her as though she is simpleminded, and she feels the clamp of the guard's hand around elbow. She to Guy in the hope that he will speak up and recommend that she stay, but he might as well have turned to stone for all the emotion that creeps through his icy façade. He doesn't turn around, not even when she murmurs his name, not even when she is forced to follow the guard through the tent and out into the bright sun.

* * *

It takes less than a minute for Guy to regret Marian's absence. Her presence beside him—cool and calming even when she is angry and spitting—made it easier to adopt the role of heroic servant to the crown. At least, that is, until she started singing Robin's praises and mentioning their betrothal as though it were an afterthought.

Then again, perhaps it is a good thing that she is gone; his fists are still clenched from his battle with the raw feelings that welled up when he saw her worry for Hood, heard the way her voice wavered. He cannot deal with those emotions now, or the humiliation that inevitably follows every time his insane love for Marian is trotted out for the public to see.

Guy forces himself to relax, to place all of his attentions toward not giving himself up, at not letting his hate for this man overwhelm his instincts of preservation. It would help if the blonde man—Carter—did not stare at him as though he though Guy might leap forward at any second and attempt to strangle the King with his bare hands. At least his attention is currently diverted by the question of Robin's loyalty. Guy had completely forgotten about the Sheriff's plan to cast suspicion on the outlaws until the guards loitering at the camp's edges had mentioned multiple plots. Obviously, Vasey's final stratagem had worked. He would be lying if he said that he didn't feel a slight thrill at the prospect of seeing Robin rid from this world forever. Then he could make Marian forget him and he would no longer hang over their lives like a specter.

"My Lord," Carter says from beside him. "Lady Marian is impetuous, but she speaks the truth."

The King does not respond, but Guy sees a hint of uncertainty flit across his stony mien before he faces the back of the tent, as though wishing to shield his thoughts from prying gazes. When he turns back, it is not to face Carter, but Guy. "Sir Guy, you are acquainted with the Earl of Huntington, are you not? What say you to these claims?"

Guy can't help but admire the man's shrewdness. He would have to be very sure of his accusation to boldly set his word against that of one of the King's closest guards, especially one who knew him as Vasey's man. Lying now would be imprudent and ignorant, but that does not mean he isn't tempted. But Marian . . . Marian would hate him forever. If he has learned one thing in the course of their relationship, it's that his lies always out themselves eventually.

And thus, with that knowledge burning in his gut, Guy is forced to say something he never would have predicted. "I believe Robin of Locksley to be innocent of treachery," he says, struggling not to choke on bitterness. "He has been your loyal follower, even when it has put him directly against the law."

King Richard looks at him curiously, and then turns to Carter. "I have acted rashly. Bring Robin and his men here. We will sort this out."

Carter's relief is plain to see. "Thank you, My Lord," he says quickly and exits, but not before giving a sharp nod to Guy. Two soldiers from outside enter immediately to keep watch. If Guy were ever foolish enough to believe that he had evaded suspicion, this would be proof enough to end such naïve trust.

"Will you sit, Sir Guy?" Richard says, and gestures to a high-backed wooden chair to Guy's right. "My men should return with news of what they found in Acre soon."

Guy takes a seat, but does not make it further back than the edge. The King pulls his own chair from the back of the tent and faces it across from him. The light from outside illuminates his knees and chest, but fails to reach his face. Guy would feel more comfortable if he could make out the man's expression.

"Lady Marian is quite pretty," he says. Coming from another man, those words would put Guy on edge, but the King's remark is absent of masculine interest, almost as if he were admiring a particularly intricate piece of metalwork. "How long have you been betrothed?"

"A little over a year," he lies. It sounds better than "three hours," and would be true if you didn't count the aborted wedding attempt.

"I see. Robin used to speak of a Marian when he was here serving me. I can't imagine that there are that many running around Nottingham."

Guy shifts uneasily. "They were once betrothed. But that is in the past," he says fiercely, as though he could make it true with force of will alone. This talk of Marian is making him uncomfortable. There is no reason for these questions, and he wants them to stop.

Thankfully, the King seems to abandon the subject. "Gisborne," he says suddenly, apropos of nothing. "Why does that name sound familiar? Where are your lands located?"

"The lands were located in Sussex."

"Were?"

"My family was stripped of their lands and titles over twenty years ago."

"Why?"

"Treachery."

"Toward whom?"

"Your father," Guy says, close to snapping, and then corrections himself. "I mean King Henry." He closes his eyes and attempting to regain composure. After all, this is all in the past. "My family supported you and your brothers when you attempted to usurp his power. When they were found out, they were discredited and punished."

Guy half expects to be rebuked for such an insolent history lesson, but Richard only tilts his head. "I am sorry," he says, although his voice never slips into anything other than empty, kingly compassion. "Many of our people were reestablished once we came to power. Why were your parents not among them?"

If he were not the King, Guy would stand up, kick over the chair, and storm out without answering. But instead he must sit here and be stripped of his life story bit by bit. "My father died five years before your coronation, my mother three," he says. "The lands were resold to raise money for this Crusade. At the time I did not have enough to regain them for the family."

"And yet you are here, quite possibly having saved my life," he says. The words hold no hint of gratitude, only thinly veiled inquiry.

"You are the King, I am your subject," Guy says, falling back on simple, dumb loyalty. It is, after all, the hardest to question.

Guy hears the tent open behind him. Relieved that this might bring a reprieve to the questions, he turns to find two guards. One has a smear of blood across the front of his tunic.

"It is as he said, My Lord. We found the Sheriff upstairs, dead, and two others tied and shackled in the corner. One of them is Nasim."

"And so the circle completes itself," Richard says, sounding satisfied. "That explains why he showed up yesterday shouting of Robin's treason. I should have known. Question the prisoners, report back to me tomorrow."

After the men leave, King Richard turns to Guy. "This could have been bad. Very bad indeed. But as it seems that your story has withstood further inquiry, you may settle yourself while we wait for Carter to return. I will send for you if I need to ask more questions." He starts to wave him away, and then pauses. "Rest assured that I will not forget your service."

Guy stands, bows, and makes to leave, more eager to exit this tent than he has ever been to part from something in his life. Could have been bad? This _is_ bad. The King has made no mention of reward; he has not been able to cast off the mantle of suspicion. And what's more, Guy himself has just assured that the man he despises more than anything else—the true owner of his home and lands, the hero of peasants—will have the King's ear. And Marian. The fact that he will be near Marian again is eating through all the hope that has been slowly growing in Guy's chest since she kissed him of her own free will.

He steps outside, hitting the flap of the tent with a force that startles the curious men who have been lingering around hoping to pick up a stray word. He yells at them, indulging the rage that he has kept so tightly wound since the moment he first stepped into the camp. He is about to do it again when he hears the thunder of hoof beats. Two horses charge toward him. Even with the glare of the late afternoon sun in his eyes, Guy can make out who they are.

One is Carter, his face shining with relief even from this distance. The other is Robin Hood, his face full of the righteousness he wears around like a mask. In his hand is a piece of parchment that Guy recognizes immediately.

It is the pact. Vasey's Pact of Nottingham.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to Biancaneve, xxCee-Gxx, Zelofheda, Rose of Silent Winter, Kit Merlot, Forgotten Fallen Angel, and aimeecat for their wonderful feedback. It's made me kind of obsessed with writing more. Hopefully you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

There are many things that Guy hates about Robin Hood, and most of them have nothing to do with Marian. He hates how he tosses off noble speeches about fairness and justice one second, but then treats it like child's play the next. He hates how nothing seems to touch him—not the loss of his lands, his wealth, or even his good name. But most of all, he hates how he is always grinning.

Only once has Hood's prancing Lord of the Forest act cracked. After he saw Guy's tattoo and away from his band of laughing imbeciles, he had finally seemed fallible, human. Guy had relished seeing his vices bared and bleeding, had relished seeing how his jabs struck home. He knew that it was hurting his own chances for survival—each time his vision had clouded and grayed, he expected not to wake up again—but he didn't care. In those moments, all that mattered was making his nemesis feel the crawling anger and insecurity that he, himself, feels every single second of every day. But after Guy had been traded for the Saracen girl, he never saw that side of Hood again.

Until now. Hood's anger is written in every line of his body as he approaches—there is no sign of his usual ease and assurance. He doesn't even wait for the horse to settle before leaping from its back and heading straight for Guy, the pact still clutched tightly in his right hand. Guy expects to have it furled out in front of his nose, to be shown the place where his name is scrawled, dark and black. He doesn't expect Hood's fist to crash into his jaw so hard that he falls backward onto the earth.

Guy tries to open his eyes and defend himself, but the sun above him is too bright to see anything other than the dark shadow of Robin bending over him. Another blow rocks his head to the side, knuckles knocking against his cheekbone before he feels his back leave the ground as Robin yanks him up by his shirtfront.

"This will not happen," Hood spits into his face as he pulls him closer, close enough that Guy is staring into one wide green eye. "You will not fool anyone with your lies. You will not play the hero after all of your scheming and treachery." He throws him back to the ground and then stands up and wipes his hands as though disgusted. "And you will not have Marian."

Towering over him with a triumphant smirk, Hood finally blocks the glare from above. Guy bends his leg and drives the heel of his boot into Hood's knee, experiencing a short, vicious thrill when he hears a satisfying snap. Scrambling to his feet, he leans over his fallen foe and returns the punches.

"What bothers you more—the idea of me with Marian?" he pants between blows. "Or the fact that it wasn't you who saved the day?" He punctuates the last question with another swift kick to Hood's ribs. If he is about to go down in flames, he will be damned if he loses this last fight. Before he can drag Robin up and throw him into something heavy, however, he feels hands clamp around his forearms and pull him back. Guards. Three of them.

Guy can only watch as Carter approaches and helps Hood to his feet. Guy smiles to see that he favors his left leg. Hopefully he will limp forever. So will his children and grandchildren.

"Ah, but you see, it doesn't matter what bothers me now," Robin says, some of the old jauntiness returning as he wipes away a dot of blood from the corner of his lips. Stepping forward, he taps Guy's chest with the rolled up pact. It's worse for wear, but still intact. "You are going to hang, Gisborne. And I, for one, will be happy to see it."

Guy can only glare. He can think of nothing to say that will not come off sounding like the foolish taunt of a dead man. Luckily, a flash of movement from the King's tent saves him from an awkward silence.

"Robin," a voice calls out from the entryway, low but commanding.

Stepping away from Guy, Robin pivots toward the king and bows. "My Lord," he says simply. Guy has never seen Hood act so deferential; it is a strange thing to behold.

"Come inside and we will talk," King Richard says. He nods at the guards who still have hold of Guy's arms and then motions at Guy himself. "All three of us. Carter, please make sure that Robin's men are taken care of. Give them anything they ask for. And then double it.

Guy's heart pounds as he steps back into the tent. He has never been good with words, and he doubts that even the most eloquent of men would be able to explain away a signature swearing to put the King's brother on the throne. This is the end. Guy wonders if he will have a chance to see Marian before they drag him away and chop his head off. He realizes that this is a crazy last wish, much like a hanged man wanting to see his noose, but there it is.

King Richard takes his seat once again, and motions to the chair across from him. Neither Guy nor Robin make a move to sit. Instead they remain standing at opposing corners, eying each other warily. When it's clear that this is where they will stay, the King clears his throat.

"Robin. I apologize for imposing such a foolhardy sentence on you and your men without giving you the chance to speak in your own defense. You were always one of my most loyal guards, and I should not have trusted the first serpent who whispered in my ear." He bows his head, exposing a thinning patch of hair at the crown of his head. Guy notices that the skin is pink and vulnerable beneath. "Please forgive me."

Hood is touched by the apology—that much is clear—but he only shrugs. "I am fine. My gang is fine. It has caused no harm other than a bad sunburn," he says, waving it off and sounding almost cheerful as he pulls out the pact. "But I have something that I would have showed you before." He crosses the room and places it in Richard's outstretched hand. "Sir Edward of Knighton recovered this document from the Sheriff of Nottingham's room before being murdered by Vasey's guards. It clearly outlines those who would wish to kill you and place your brother on the throne." Hood folds his hands in front of him and waits with a self-satisfied air. He knows as well as Guy what will come next.

Richard peers over the names. "Sir Guy, your mark is here."

"It is."

"Would you care to explain?"

"Vasey was my lord and master for ten years. When he asked me to sign, I signed. There was no other choice."

A scornful snort comes from Hood's direction. "He plays down his own involvement. This is not the first time he has come to the Holy Land with the intent of killing you. Three years ago he was among the men who dressed like Saracens and attacked the camp."

King Richard rubs at his chin. "That is quite the accusation."

"My word is true. You know that," Robin swears.

"Sir Guy, what say you to these claims?"

Guy slides his eyes over to meet Robin's victorious gaze. His expression is transparent; he expects a denial. His cheeks are nearly puffed up with all the bits of evidence waiting to tumble out.

There is nothing to do but gamble. "They are true," Guy says decisively, turning back to face Richard's studied expression. "Three years ago I arrived here with the intention of killing you. I believe you understand my reasons, while misguided, for wanting to go against the crown. But my loyalties have changed. My conscience has changed." He lets his voice lower. "And I believe that I have proven that. With blood."

"Conscience! His reasons have nothing to do with conscience! Try greed and lust and—" Robin begins.

King Richard holds up a hand, keeping his focus on Guy. "Why wait to kill Vasey until the Holy Land? If anything, this document proves that this has been a longstanding scheme."

"Prince John swore to destroy Nottingham if Vasey were found dead under suspicious circumstances. I would not risk it."

"He cares _nothing _for the people of Nottingham!" Robin roars.

Guy can't help but stare at Hood incredulously. _And you believe that this man cares for the people of Nottingham? _He wants to retort. _He has never set foot in Nottingham! He has barely set foot in England! _But all he can do is wait, and try his best to keep his hands from trembling.

King Richard says nothing, just looks again at the damning document in his hand. When he raises his head, his voice is warm. "Robin, I am sure that you long to rest after this long day. Thank you for bringing me this, and for your eternal service." He stands up and goes to put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "And for your eternal friendship. I will deal with Sir Guy."

Guy watches the mix of emotions flash across Hood's face. Surprise, confusion, and finally an indignation that he quickly muffles. "My Lord, I can stay," he says.

Richard shakes his head. "It is not necessary. Please, go to your men."

Reluctantly, Hood turns to leave, but not before tossing one last comment over his shoulder. "I have someone else to see first."

The words are meant for him, and they hit with the force of stones right between the shoulder blades. His head snaps around as he snarls a warning to stay away from Marian, but Robin is already gone. And Guy realizes that he is now left alone with the man he once tried to kill, and the man who now knows it.

* * *

The tent they dump her in smells of men, sweat, and horses. From the general disarray, Marian guesses that its previous occupants were obviously ushered out in great haste; bits of cloth and clothing lie wadded in corners, the bedding is stale and mussed, and absent bits of metal lie scattered across the dusty earth. The temperature here is almost worse than that outside; if anything, the heavy canvas only magnifies the sun's heat. Marian can feel the sweat pooling at her lower back. It's almost as distracting as the frustration she can feel gathering in every joint, every fingertip.

She is a prisoner. Again. The two men who dragged—nay, _escorted_—her here have taken position outside of her tent. They are polite enough; their refusals to let her pass are always followed by a "milady" or a chivalrous gesture. But at the end of the day, they are still refusals. The third time she tries to bargain her way past, the older of the soldiers, a mustached man with graying hair and gentle gray eyes, sighs.

"Lady Marian," he says with a slightly exasperated shake of the head. "We are under orders to keep you here until matters have been sorted out. You can bat your eyes at young William over there as much as you like—he surely appreciates it—but as long as I am here, you will be staying in the tent." He takes her by the arm, as courteously as one can when they are forcibly restraining someone, and nudges her back inside.

An hour later, two different guards enter carrying the bags and satchels they left in the upper chambers of Vasey's house in Acre. "You have been to the house, then?" she says to their impenetrable expressions. "You found the Sheriff? The men?" They say nothing, only share a pointed glance and leave.

Marian is left with nothing to do but pace. On what must be her hundredth circle, she notices a spot where the cloth of the tent is thin and worn. Distasteful as it is, if she crouches down and holds it to her face she can survey the main path that bisects the camp, albeit through a hazy veil. Most of the men do nothing but wander aimlessly, going from tent to tent while scratching their heads . . . and other, unmentionable, things. Really, do they here have nothing better to do? She had expected to be overwhelmed by a sense of great purpose the minute she entered the camp. Right now, all she has felt is annoyance. And fear.

In the Sheriff's house it had all seemed so easy. Convince Guy to kill Vasey, vouch for Guy to the King, and then feel satisfied knowing that she had carried out Robin's last wish. Three steps. But now Robin's most likely not dead, and she has been eliminated from the action by the very person that she is responsible for saving. Is it treason to think that one's king is insufferable? She doesn't know, but it bears further thought. Anything to keep her from letting the niggling worry rush in, letting it flood her whole being like water escaping its banks for the first time. And not just worry for Robin, but also for Guy, now on his own with a man he's professed to hate. . . .What has she gotten him in to? She has never wanted to be anyone's downfall.

The powerful legs of two horses pump past her line of sight, drawing her attention back to the road in one fell swoop. One of those horses was manned by a man in earth-colored leather trousers. _Robin. _

She tries to tell herself not to get excited—it may just be her fevered, heat-addled brain playing tricks on her again—but it is all in vain; she jumps up with excitement every time she hears a soft tread walk past. An hour goes by. She tries to concentrate on other things, like eavesdropping on the guards' conversation. William and Grey Mustache are discussing a certain lady that the former fancies in Acre. He doesn't know her name, only that she smells like spices and walks down the main road every Thursday in the company of a robed figure. Marian feels a pang of sorrow; she remembers when love felt that simple and pure.

A few seconds later, however, their conversation comes to an abrupt stop as a loud crash echoes in from outside. She hears the scuffle of her guards moving away from her tent. Running to the doorway, she discovers that two men are fighting—fighting badly. Their wild punches don't seem to be making much of an impact on anything other than the surroundings. A broken table lies to one side, split straight down the center. Its jumbled contents have slid to a heap in the middle, which the fighting men sidestep awkwardly before falling to the ground and tumbling to the side so that all Marian can see are the tops of their heads rolling between the feet of the onlookers. One of the men wears a dull beige skullcap. And the other has slightly gingery hair. . .

She shakes her head. If she wants to act, this is the time to do it. She will just slip out for a moment and she what she can find out, she tells herself. Taking a deep breath, she checks left and right to make sure that the area is clear of people who would keep her in a corner due to their ridiculous obsession with her sex. Safe. But as soon as she stretches out a tentative toe, a voice calls out from behind her.

"It's a bit rude for you to leave now—especially after my men have gone to all this trouble so I could be granted an audience."

She turns around to face Robin's familiar grin. As always happens when she sees him, her heart jumps into her throat and sticks there. When they were growing up, all the girls would have given their left eye to be noticed by the young Earl of Huntingdon, who seemed to always be joking and laughing and ignoring all the pretty girls who were offering him their hearts on a serving platter. She herself was often guilty of following him around at public events, so much so that once her father had teased her and called her "Robin's shadow." She had not spoken to him for a week, vowing prove him wrong by speaking up, by demanding attention; she would be no one's shadow.

Imagine her surprise when her forthrightness finally succeeded in winning a prize no other girl had even come close to touching: Robin's attention. He delighted in her cheek, loved it when she shot his teasing remarks right back at him like one of his own arrows. And she felt a growing sense of power, a sense of her own mind. Occasionally she would go too far, wound his pride, and she would immediately retreat, rattling off compliments and retractions as if they were soothing balms. When Robin left, she felt bereft, yes, but beneath the grief and anger was an even greater sense of freedom. She could think anything she wanted, say anything she wanted.

When he returned, she was afraid that she would fall back into old patterns, tone down her own feelings and thoughts. But she has been proud of herself; even when it is clear that he is frustrated with her, she has held steady. Sometimes she has even become frustrated with him. She wishes that he would take her more seriously, listen to her ideas the same way he would listen to a member of his gang's. But there is only so much that you can hope for. And after all, she remembers with a start, it doesn't matter now. Her future life is not with him.

But as Robin walks toward her, she has trouble remembering that. When he is so close that she can feel the heat of him, she closes her eyes, expecting to feel his lips press against hers, but instead he reaches over her shoulder and pulls back the flap of the tent.

"That fight looks almost real. Remember to congratulate Much and Alan the next time you see them." He looks down at her upturned face. "The Holy Land has not been good to you, Marian."

Before she can stop herself, Marian's hand flies to her nose. Annoyed at herself, she thrusts it back to her side. "What do you mean?"

"The smell in here . . . it's horrible!" he quips, smiling.

"I did not notice it until you entered. How did you get in here?"

He pulls a thin blade from the pouch at his waist and walks to the back of the tent, revealing to her the newly made slit in the tight canvas that runs from ceiling to floor with the air of a boy showing off his first carving. Unless you are looking, it is barely noticeable.

"There were no guards at the front," she says with a hint of teasing. "Was your need for a surprise entrance so great?"

He shrugs. "You never know when you will need to make a hasty escape." He crosses back toward her. "And I'll admit; a part of me thought I might catch you crying for your lost love." He points to his face, which shows the signs of what will most likely be a nasty sunburn. His lip is also a bit puffy. "I was left to die in the desert, you know."

Marin can say nothing, so great is the horror at what might have been. Closing the distance between them, she throws herself into his arms. "I am glad that you are alive," she whispers into his shoulder, and he murmurs the same into her hair. His cheek is hot against her head, and she feels his hand come up to touch her chin as though to bring her up for a kiss. She pulls away.

"Robin, there is something I need to tell you," she says, stepping backward and steeling herself for the difficulty to come.

He tries to pull her back into his arms. "I know. Don't worry; everything is going to be fine."

She shakes him off. "What do you mean 'you know'?"

"Carter came to rescue us. He told me that you arrived in camp with Gisborne, that Gisborne was claiming to have killed Vasey in the name the King, and that you were claiming to be his betrothed. But it's all going to be fine," he says impatiently. "I have shown Richard the pact. Gisborne will get what he deserves."

Marian feels as though all the blood in her body has turned to ice. She grabs Robin's arm. "Tell me," she demands, panicked. "Tell me that Guy's name is not on the pact."

Robin actually laughs. "Of course it is on the pact! He was Vasey's dogsbody, after all."

"But Guy killed Vasey! Guy saved Richard!"

The words make Robin flinch, but he soon recovers. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, but Marian would be a fool to think him appeased. "And why did he do that, Marian?" She turns away, but he spins her back to face him, voice rising. "Greed and lust. Lust for _you."_

First she feels surprise—Robin has never treated her this way—but it is soon followed by an onslaught of pure rage. "Take your hand off of me."

"Not until you admit that he deserves to die."

"Whatever his reasons, he saved your King," Marian spits back. "He made a choice—the right choice. You cannot turn around and send him to his death."

"Too late," Robin says coldly.

"What do you mean?"

"He is with Richard now, and he knows of his treachery. And not just this time, but before. Guy has admitted to it."

Marian doesn't know what to do. She feels the barriers she normally keeps wrapped tight around herself crumbling. Without wanting to, she has led Guy to his ruin. There has to be a way to fix this, there _has to. _She goes to the bags brought by the guards, pulls them open, and frantically searches through their contents as if they might contain some clue, some document to counteract the one that currently has a sword at his throat. It is a ridiculous, crazy impulse—she knows this—but she cannot stop raking through them again and again.

She upends her bag even though she knows it to be empty. To her a surprise, a tiny leather pouch falls out and hits the ground with a tiny thud. With trembling fingers she pulls out the emerald betrothal ring that Robin gave her so long ago in the forest. Even in the haste of her forced packing, she had found time to slip it beneath her belongings for safekeeping. Now it only winks at her mockingly.

"You want to marry him," Robin says from behind her. She has never heard him sound so bitter.

"I want to marry you!" she yells. "I wanted to marry you when I was fifteen and you left me to go fight in this horrible place for your ridiculous king!" Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and she has to pause and regain her composure; the last thing she wants is for her voice to wobble. "But you made a choice. And I respect that. But I have made a choice now, and I need you to respect it as well." She shakes her head. "It was not to be. It was never to be."

He says nothing. Standing up, she holds the ring out toward him. "I thought you were dead," she whispers. "I thought you would want the King to be safe no matter what."

Robin reaches out and rips the ring from her hands. He leans down as if to say something, and for one second Marian thinks he's going to say that he understands the sacrifice that she has made, that he understands how much it hurts that she has finally said goodbye to the dream of them for the last time. But that is not what he says.

"There are words for women who make the kind of deals that you did," he whispers in her ear, and then walks back through the cut in the tent and out of her life.

* * *

Marian shakes for what feels like an eternity. Every time she feels like she has repaired the hole Robin's last words left in her heart, a new one opens up. Every time she thinks that she has recovered from a stab of guilt over how she has betrayed Guy, a new one catches her unawares. When dusk finally falls, bringing the cold, she is happy to shiver for a reason other than heartbreak.

When she can barely see her hand in front of her face, William comes in and lights a candle, rambling on about the day's fight before remembering that he is a guard, and thus should not be so friendly with the semi-prisoner. "Do you need anything?" he asks, trying to be gruff, but failing as soon as he catches sight of her red and puffy eyes. "Lady Marian, you are not well."

"I am fine," she says and tries out a weak smile. "I just wish to be left alone for the rest of the evening.

When he is gone, she looks at the mess she has made with the bags. Clothes are strewn everywhere—hers and Guy's and even Vasey's. Obviously, the guards had grabbed everything. Desperate for something to do, she begins to sort them back into their bags. But as she is stuffing Vasey's white shirts back into a bag, she pauses. Why is she sitting here feeling sorry for herself? For all she knows, Guy is not dead yet.

Looking down at the clothes in her hands, she gets to work. After checking to make sure that no one is peeking in, she removes her dress, the cold air hitting her skin without mercy. Doing the best she can with numbed fingers, she wraps a long sash around her chest to bind her breasts, pulls on a pair of black trousers, and rolls them up as best as she can at the cuffs. She slips a black shirt over her head and pulls out a heavy velvet jacket, also black.

It will have to do, she thinks as she tucks her hair into her collar. She wads up a few pieces of clothing and stuffs them beneath a blanket, hoping that her mound looks vaguely human. Then, with one last look around the inside of the stuffy tent, she parts the door Robin made and steps outside. She just wishes she knew the next part of her plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**As always, thanks all for commenting! I'm a little nervous now that I have some people rooting for R/M, considering that I'm a die-hard G/M shipper who is still in denial, but I'm just happy that you are reading and enjoying it! So…on we go to chapter five!  
**

* * *

After Robin leaves, Guy wishes that Richard would sentence him to death and be done with it. He is tired, he is hot, and his injured side, irritated by the harsh chafe of overheated leather, has started to itch and burn. If he is going to spend eternity in hell—and deep down Guy knows he gave up any chance for a different fate long ago—he would prefer to skip the earthbound torture of waiting.

But Richard does not call in his guards or point his finger in condemnation. He only returns to his chair, where he sinks deep into his thoughts and allows Guy time to study the ground beneath him and imagine the myriad ways that he will be put to death. Will the King throw him in with the other prisoners and leave him to starve? Or perhaps he will be executed right here, his body carted off and disposed of before his blood even had time to sink into the dirt, before anyone even had time to discover that there was no one to mourn his loss. In truth, he thinks he would prefer the sudden slice of a sword, or even a surprise dagger to the back. There would be a flash of pain, yes, but it would be followed by a welcome nothingness, a final and blessed absence of feeling. And he would be spared any reflection on the lifetime of sins that have brought him here to this moment, all the petty jealousies and cold-blooded murders done in the name of things that seem utterly ridiculous now.

Guy looks up to find that the King has emerged from his reflections and is now studying him with the curious air of a man watching an upturned insect try to right itself. There is no anger in his gaze, only a detached curiosity that is belied by the way his fingers absently rub at his chin. Finally, he speaks.

"Please, Sir Guy. Sit." He gestures once again toward the chair.

What is this man's obsession with sitting? All this civility only makes a mockery of what is to come. Guy refuses to go to his death perched in front of this man like an ignorant guest at a banquet, blissfully unaware that his cup holds poison and his meat hides slivers of metal. And now that there is nothing more to lose, he does not mind saying so.

"I prefer to stand," he says with what he feels is an impressive amount of dignity for a condemned man. A cool drop of sweat chooses that moment to slip under his collar; it paints an icy trail down his back.

"Sit," Richard repeats himself, and this time it is a command. "You do not know what I am going to say, Sir Guy, so try not to wrap the noose around your own neck just yet."

Thrown off balance by that last remark, Guy walks slowly to the chair and takes a seat. He rests his elbows on the heavy wooden arms, lacing his fingers together so his hands remain suspended in front of his chest in a pose that he hopes suggests a casual interest in what is to come. It's all he can do to keep from clutching its sides like a nun does her rosary.

"That's better," Richard says, his light-blue gaze surprisingly clear and open. "I have always thought that there is a certain amount of bravery in admitting all your past misdeeds, especially to those that you have committed them against, don't you?"

Despite his best intentions, Guy shifts uneasily in his seat. "I have not thought about it," he says tersely.

Unfazed by Guy's non-response, Richard carries on. "And I have always believed that we are given opportunities to atone for these sins. Whether or not we choose to take them—or extend them to others—is entirely up to us. There is a reason, after all, that I was granted the chance to serve my country and my God on this Crusade."

"I do not understand."

Richard sighs. "I have begun this badly," he says, leaning forward so that his robes fall forward and obscure his hands. "You are shrewd enough to realize that I have enough evidence to have you executed for treason without qualm or question."

Guy can only give a sharp nod. "I do. I have only one request, My Lord, and that is that I be allowed to see Lady Marian one last time before I…" Guy is ashamed to find that he cannot continue. He rips his gaze away from Richard's and stares into the corner.

"You are leaping ahead of yourself. We need not speak of last requests just yet." Richard sits back, more at ease than an executioner should be. "I am of the camp that believes one indebted to the man that has saved his life. So we are at an impasse."

Guy wishes that the King would stop talking in ideologies and intangibilities. Although he is almost tempted to ask for a blade and start hacking away at his own head, he restrains himself to a question. "An impasse?"

"Whatever your reasons—and I believe I have a fair inkling of their source—you stopped a plot on my life." He gestures to the Pact. "But, then again, you have plotted against me as well. You have already admitted to a previous attempt on my life, and I suspect that this trip to the Holy Land was to be another." He fixes Guy with a stern gaze. "Do not deny that you came here with the intention of killing me."

"I will not."

"Good. But you shifted course at the last second, and ended up correcting an error that I would have regretted until the end of my days."

"My Lord?"

"The unjust sentencing of Robin, Earl of Huntingdon."

Guy has to bite his tongue in order to hold it. He bites it harder when Richard starts to chuckle.

"There is no love lost between you, is there?" he asks. "Most likely due to that woman. So many things come down to women in the end," he says, and Guy thinks he can detect a genuine note of bafflement.

"She is not just a woman," Guy says through gritted teeth. Even though he has been guilty of thinking his love for Marian as a weakness in the past, he is sick and tired of having it brought out and thrust in his face again and again.

Richard is still chuckling. "No, I imagine not. I imagine I have more to thank her for than I know. You can extend my apologies next time you see her; I would rather not do it myself."

For the first time since this meeting began, Guy allows a small flicker of hope to spring to life in his chest. "Are you pardoning me, My Lord?"

"That depends. How willing are you to swear fealty to me? To forsake any grudges that you bear, or have borne in the past?

Guy swallows. In his life there have been more days than he can count where it has been only his rage against this man that has kept him going, only the idea of flipping his England upside down the same way that he turned Guy's world was upturned twenty years ago. But he knows that there is no chance of that now; he has killed the man with the power to make that happen. And if he is to be honest, over the past few years that dream has been chipped away by another of embarrassing simplicity. In it, he lives with Marian and she smiles at him all the time.

Richard seems nonplussed by his hesitation. "Would you honestly rather die?"

Guy suddenly realizes what a foolhardy luxury his hesitation was. "No, My Lord." He swallows his pride. "Your pardon is more than generous than I deserve. I will swear fealty and forsake grudges here and now."

Richard's eyes narrow, but his voice is light, appeased. "Good. In time, there may even be some land in it for you. You would have to pay for it, of course. This campaign has been more costly than I ever expected. But we could discuss what you were able to give."

Guy is taken aback; he expected execution and here he is being offered something he's pursued with icy ambition. But all he says is, "I have money."

"Yes. I imagine you do." Richard smiles, but there is no warmth in it. He picks up the pact and holds it out before him. "I will also need you to tell me everything you know about the men whose signatures are here. They will not be so lucky."

And so it begins to make sense; he is to be a rat. Guy knew that this was working itself out too easily. "With all honesty, my Lord, I do not know much; Vasey kept most of his dealings close to his chest."

"I imagine you know more than you think," he says before his mouth compresses into a thin line. "Do not take what I have just given you lightly. You are not free yet, Sir Guy. You will have a guard at all times. You will stay here in the Holy Land until I am assured that you will perpetrate no further acts against me. Then and only then will you be free to return to England; then and only then will I marry you and Lady Marian." He pauses. "And do not be surprised if sometime in the future I call on you to perform a few . . . small tasks."

"I am sure that Hood would be more than delighted to perform any task you set him upon," Guy remarks with more of an edge than he originally intended. Now that he is starting to believe that he may have a future beyond the next week, Richard's mention of Marian has rekindled his anxiousness to find her in the wake of Hood's final taunt.

"These are not things that I would ask of Robin. He is . . . too idealistic."

So he is to do Richard's dirty work. Guy doesn't know why that makes his stomach sink—he is not unfamiliar with the role—but he had hoped…no, he doesn't know what he had hoped. He gives a curt bow. "At your request, then."

"Marvelous." He holds the Pact up in front his face like a map. "Let's begin with the Sheriff of Winchester…"

They spend the next few hours discussing every name and every scribble etched across that cursed piece of parchment. By the time dusk falls, Guy feels like he has repeated himself a million times over, and yet Richard shows no sign of tiring. He calls out for guards to come light the candles, and they come, accompanied by Carter. Before they leave, Richard crooks a finger and whispers in Carter's ear. Whatever he says, it causes the blond man's gaze to fly to Guy with a startled expression. But he nods his head and bows. "I'll be outside the tent," he says, "for whenever you are ready."

Guy would like to ask "Ready for what?" but Richard coughs and draws his attention back to the document. When Guy's eyelids feel so heavy that he is beginning to think that they have turned into lead, Richard rolls up the Pact and places it in a scarred wooden chest for safekeeping.

"I believe we are done here for today," he says. "Carter will find you lodgings. I have assigned him to be your personal guard.

Guy's eyes fly open. "Carter? My Lord, he is not—"

"He is fair," Richard interrupts. "I will call for you when I next have need. Do not make me regret my decision."

There is nothing left to say. After a short bow, Guy steps outside into the cool evening air. The sky is dark except for a low-sitting red band that heralds the last rays of the setting sun. It is beautiful, yes, but it reminds Guy of blood, thick and viscous. It reminds him of something he is foolish enough to keep forgetting; once you have chosen blood, there is no escaping it.

The shuffling of feet to his right snaps him from his morose thoughts. Carter steps forward out of the gloom. "I am to be your guard, Sir Guy. Let me show you to your tent," he says. His voice is flat, but free of ill will. Still, Guy imagines that he can see his distaste for this task in his eyes.

"I would see Lady Marian first."

"It is late."

"And I do not care. Take me to her tent."

Reluctantly, Carter leads the way down the road that cuts through camp. Soldiers are finishing up the evening, tucking away for the night with waves of farewell and grunts of goodnight. The few that remain stare at him warily. Guy would like to believe that it was fear brought on by his imposing stride, but he knows that it is more likely due to the fact that this is a highly regimented world, and they have no idea where he belongs. He meets their curious expressions with glares. Some glare back bravely, others stare at guiltily at their hands.

"There are men who have been put to death for lesser crimes than yours," Carter says, turning back to frown at him.

"You think that I do not know that?" Guy snarls, but Carter has said what he wanted to say. He does not speak again until they come to a tent manned by two guards who stand hastily when they approach. They hold a small light; but the inside of the tent itself is dark.

"You may leave," Carter says. "Lady Marian will not require a guard until morning, and then only one."

Before they can respond, Guy interrupts. "Has Lady Marian had any visitors?" He can hear the suspicion and anxiousness in his own voice.

"No! She is sleeping and wishes not to be disturbed," the baby-faced one says. "She is . . . unwell."

Guy feels a wash of relief—Hood has not come. But then it is replaced by alarm. "Unwell?" he asks. "What have you done?"

He gives a nervous chuckle. "Nothing! You know how ladies can be…" He trails off.

Guy would be surprised to learn that this boy had _seen_ two ladies that weren't his mother in his young life, let alone spoken with them enough to know how they could be. But now is not the time to quibble with infants.

"I will check on her," he tells them, and then adds a growl of "_Alone_" for Carter's benefit.

They step to the side, making way for him to enter the tent. He parts the flaps softly, in case she really is sleeping. He is longing to speak with her, to share these new developments—minus a few choice parts—but he orders himself not to disturb her. It can wait until tomorrow; right now he just wants to assure himself that she is okay, to remind himself why he is here instead of in the Sheriff's house in Acre, why he has chosen this path instead of the one that he has been walking for over twenty years.

"Marian," he calls softly, just in case she is lying awake with nerves. There's no response.

He tries again, squinting into the dim light. A pile of bags lies heaped in the corner, their contents strewn about haphazardly. His eyes fly to the pallet lining the opposite side of the tent, and he breathes a sigh of relief to see the gentle swell of a sleeping body. She is here. Safe.

He walks as quietly as he can to its side and crouches down. But now that he is closer, something seems not quite right. The air is silent—he cannot hear even a whisper of inhalation—and shouldn't there be some hint of her dark curls peeking out of the top? And her shape should not be that . . . flat.

He rips the cover off in one savage motion, only to reveal a line of wadded clothing. She has abandoned him, he thinks before the shock and anger turns his mind black. She has run off with Hood.

At first he thinks his rage has actually materialized, becoming something so dark and bitter that he can taste it in his mouth, but then he realizes that he has actually bitten his tongue. How could he be so foolish? After all, she had run before, even as he stood at her side in front of three dozen witnesses. Even as he had tried everything to get her to stay—threatening and blackmailing and praying that it would work so he could have time to fix it later—he knew that she would not. She ran away, and he deserved it. He knows this; it's why he had let her go. It was only when Vasey had taunted him with it day in and day out, reminding him of the public humiliation and shame, that his hatred had turned outward. He had burned her house and he had treated her like a whore, but, in the end, she stood tall as he only sank lower and lower.

But this—this is a true betrayal. In Vasey's home he had been ready to open his eyes and say goodbye the manipulative little liar he still could not expel from his heart. But she had promised him, _promised_ him, and so he had followed her here to yet another man who would twist and control him for his own ends. No, he thinks with clenched hands, this betrayal is one he does not deserve. And so he is not letting her go.

It does not take long to find Marian's secret exit, only a swift strike to the canvas and a quick eye. He steps outside and peers around the corner to check on Carter, who has moved several feet away and is now talking to another soldier across the way. It is easy for Guy to slip past him, to disappear into the maze of darkened tents as he sets out to find Hood's camp. He half expects to find it empty and cleared out. After all, they couldn't be so foolish as to stay here, to_ flaunt _their happiness in front of him? Still, even if they have left, Guy will jump on a horse and pursue them, the King's entire guard on his heels.

A soft glow emerges from behind a tent in front of him and grows stronger as he approaches. He hears a burst of laughter, one obviously masculine but the other low and throaty and female. _Marian_. At this moment, Guy feels capable of anything: of killing, of raving, even of breaking down and crying. He almost stumbles as he rounds the edge of the final tent, has to catch himself to keep from falling.

Thankfully, their backs are to him. By the light of the fire, he sees the big burly shape of the manbeast they call Little John, the long neck of the quiet one, the small-shouldered figure of the Saracen girl, and the covered head of their cook—or, Guy thinks darkly, the Earl of Bonchurch. To the far right is the shaggy head of Hood, bent over and staring at his toes. And to the far left, he realizes with a flash of anger, is Allan's curly reddish hair. But Marian is missing. _Where is Marian?_

"I'm not being funny. I had you pinned," he says as he punches the cook on the shoulder with his free hand. The other holds a leg of roasted meat.

"You most certainly did not!" the other replies in a huff. "It was a fake fight anyway." He pauses. "A fake fight that I clearly won."

"You're a liar. I heard you crying for your mum."

Bonchurch can only glare, but the glare lessens when he bites into his own meal. "I could get used to this," he says, and the others make murmuring sounds of assent.

"I think we could all get used to you not cooking," Hood says with bitterness, effectively breaking the camaraderie.

"Robin," the Saracen girl begins, "do you want to—"

"For the last time Djaq, no, I do not," he barks and the circle falls quiet once again.

After a few seconds, Allan stands and yawns. "Well mates, I think I've a mind to turn in. My bed smells like a horse's arse, but I'd bet a coin that I'll sleep like a babe in it."

_Mates again, are they?_ Guy thinks darkly, unable to stop from sneering. Inside he begins to seethe afresh. How is it that he is able to feel anger on top of anger, betrayal on top of betrayal?

"Go to bed, Allan," Hood says, with enough frustration that you would think Allan had just asked him to carry him to bed personally.

"Er, alright then. Night," Allan says uneasily and turns toward Guy's hiding spot. Guy ducks into the dark tent, moving toward the back as he listens to his steps come closer. Allan opens a flap and steps inside. He is muttering to himself; Guy catches "Robin" and "ungrateful git" before he springs forward, clamps his hand over the smaller man's mouth, and drags him to the ground.

"Don't yell, don't fight," Guy warns, "or I will rip out your tongue. Where is Marian?"

Allan's eyes widen, and Guy feels the muffled vibrations of his response against his hand. Holding a finger to his lips, he slowly removes his hand.

"Look Giz, I'm sorry," Allan says in a rush. "They were my friends once, you know. I couldn't just leave them in the barn all set to die. They—"

"I don't care about your pathetic friendships," Guy hisses and has to remind himself to keep his own voice down. "Where is Marian?"

"That's it! Like Marian. Imagine if Marian were trapped in a barn about to go up in smoke…No, wait…Imagine it were _five _Marians ready to meet their maker. I mean, one has a beard and the other one kind of looks like a bear that's been driven round the bend a few times, but—"

Guy stops that before it can go any farther, pressing his hand to Allan's throat. "Allan, I swear I will strangle you if you do not tell me where she is."

"What do you mean where she is?" Allan rasps. "She's not here, mate."

Guy rears back. "Not here?" he echoes dumbly, releasing the pressure on Allan's windpipe. "But Hood…"

"She told Hood…I mean Robin…to sod off. It's probably why he's sitting here—alive, might I add—acting like someone just showed him his own grave and told him to climb in."

"She saw Hood?" he asks. The rage is back.

Allan gives Guy a look of utter disbelief. "I'm not being funny; I think you're missing the point. She's not here. She told Robin it was over."

"She told him what was over?" he asks.

Allan winces, and for a second he looks nervous. "Oh, nothing. Their friendship. You know, no more sharing outlaw tips on how to help sick babes and blend in with the peasants."

"Allan—," Guy growls before he hears a set of footsteps from beside the tent. He does not want to be caught anymore; all he wants to do is find Marian. Worry is slowly replacing his anger, as well as shame at his overreaction. But he will not let Allan see that. "This is _not _over," he hisses at his raised eyebrows before slipping back into the night and into the cover of slumbering tents

The stars are now out in full above him. He stares upward as though they might provide an answer. She has not betrayed him; she has not run off with Hood. He does not believe that she would run out into the desert alone. _But what if she did not choose to go, _a voice whispers as he makes his way back to her tent for lack of a better plan, _what if she was taken_?

Richard. How could he be so naïve? It should not have been so easy to escape execution, not when the man struck Guy to be pragmatic almost to the point of ruthlessness. What better way to control Guy, to keep him in check for those "small tasks" than to hold the thing he holds must dear for ransom? But there's one thing Richard hadn't counted on; if that is the case Guy will have no problem slitting the man's throat. In an ironic twist, he will complete Vasey's last wish. He will kill Richard the Lionhearted.

As Guy slips around the final corner, he is trembling with rage. He almost doesn't see the dark shadow that emerges from the darkness of an alley across the way, the dark shadow that slips into the back of Marian's tent. Almost.

Thinking that Richard has sent someone to clean up his dirty work, Guy approaches the tent with stealth. Putting his ear to the cloth, he tries to discern his foe's movements, but he hears nothing. He eases open the increasingly ragged cut as silently as he can and gives his eyes time to adjust. At first he can make out nothing, only blurry shapes that melt in to one another at the edges.

But then he spots the figure of the intruder. He is not hastily scooping up clothing or surveying a job to be done. He is not gathering evidence or arranging a fake scene. Instead he is crouched in the corner with his head between his knees. His shoulders are shaking, and for the first time Guy notices the light, almost indiscernible, heave of soft sobbing.

"Who is here?" he asks as he steps the rest of the way into the tent, confused but still alert.

The figure's head snaps up. "Guy?" it asks in a voice that wavers slightly at the end before scrambling to its feet.

"Stay back," he says warily in the split second before the figure launches itself at him, wrapping its arms around his neck, before Guy realizes that the body pressed up against his is soft and warm and undeniably female. A feeling that can only be described as a mixture of shock, relief, and desire shoots through his body

"Marian—," he starts, voice lightened by happiness. But anything else he would say is smothered by her lips pressing against his in a kiss that is clumsy and ecstatic and wonderful, a kiss that suddenly makes everything seem all right. Everything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

As always, thanks for all the lovely comments!

A/N: Okay, so my original plan for this chapter slipped away from me a little bit, so it's a little less sexy than I may have said it would be in an earlier chapter. I know! I am such a liar! Throw stones at me in the form of comments! (I don't know if it's possible to be more shameless than that … my only excuse is that it is late and I am running entirely on strange-colored soda.)

Still, if you can ever trust me again, I promise you that there will be some R-rated sexiness soon if I do not devolve into a giggle fit while writing it.

This chapter, however, has some things that I think might vaguely resemble fluff. I am trying to get them out of the big hole of angst, I really am. It also jogs back a little bit to pick up some of Marian's thoughts before the end of Chapter 6.

* * *

Marian has missed being the Nightwatchman, missed the exhilarating swoop of power that comes every time she kisses such heady, undiluted freedom. When she creeps out of her tent and into the waning dusk, she can't help but think of all those times she climbed from her bedroom window at Knighton Hall to explore Nottingham without the hindrance of her rank and station. Not even Robin knows that sometimes when she put on her mask, she had no "mission" other than eluding confines of her dutiful life. On those nights, she would climb to the top of a thatched roof to look at the moon or linger outside a tavern window to hear forbidden conversations. Of course, if she happened to run across people in need, she helped them. But the nights she cherished the most were the peaceful ones, the ones where no one intruded on the gloriousness of just being herself.

Tonight, however, she has a mission: find Guy. The air is cool and quiet, the perimeter of the camp still. It is not difficult to slip past the few soldiers who remain at their posts; their slumping shoulders and drooping eyelids suggest they would have rather been asleep hours ago. Even so, Marian makes sure to stay alert and stick to the shadows, easing from dark corner to dark corner as she formulates her plan of attack. She will find him in the prisoners' tent, and then… well, she will think of the next step when the time comes.

But he is not in the prisoners' tent, and he is not along the main road either. It is then that the panic begins to build. At first it is a flutter low in her stomach, faint as a cat's purr, but when she does not find him in the King's tent, it becomes something sharp and taunting, an insinuating demon that whispers wild scenarios she can do nothing to quell.

As she retraces her steps, she prays that her increasingly insistent inner voice will be proven wrong. _He is dead_, it says. _It is your fault_, it says, before beginning to echo the things that Guy himself had accused her of before.

"_You used me as a tool to advance your own ideals…" _

"_Inside, you are just as diabolical as the Sheriff…"_

"_You like tormenting me. You like the lies. You like seeing my desire for you, knowing that you will never give in..." _

She had shaken her head, she had protested. She had used him, yes, but only in a pursuit of a higher cause. It was necessary to use him as a tool—and he deserved it, she told herself, because he had aligned himself with the Sheriff.

But there is a difference between stabbing someone and twisting the knife; she realizes this now, now that the ground feels like it's falling out beneath her and now that they have reached the end of this quickly fraying rope and all that's left is question after question after question, her abilities of denial have abandoned her. She _had_ liked it, had liked the feeling of power that came from manipulating those with power, from seeing how her cleverness trumped all their diabolical schemes. And she had liked the game, liked the challenge of keeping her wits about her when Guy did everything he could to disconcert her: standing close, invading her space, leaning forward until her skin and lips tingled from the proximity of his. How tempting it was to just give in, to follow the path of least resistance and succumb to the side where she could just let go, where there was nothing she believed in fighting for. And how empowering it was to rise above that again and again. . .

Only once had she lost the game. The night she visited Guy at Locksley with intentions of spouting a few sweet words to get back in his good graces, only to find him out of the black garb and awash in firelight that softened his features and made him seem, briefly, like an entirely different person. All of her lines of practiced flattery had fled, and she had found herself babbling on about friendship as she reached out to touch his skin like some sort of simpleton distracted by shiny things. And then Robin had peeked through the window, and she was angry, angry at Guy for not being his usual hulking, scowling, fearsome self, angry at herself for her unease, and angry at Robin for seeing her.

She stops walking, disoriented. She is standing out in the open, the moonlight dripping all over her. If anyone were to come out of their tents or turn a corner, she would be immediately exposed. Suddenly she craves the shelter of the tent, needs it to try to contain her wild thoughts. She will regroup, and then try again—she won't give up until someone shows her his death warrant, his grave, the weapon that did him in, his spilled blood.

But when she is finally back in the tent, when she is finally alone in the stuffy darkness, her resolve to remain optimistic crumbles. She has killed him with her rash words, her wild dreams, just like she did her father. Stumbling to a corner, she collapses, buries her head in her knees and cries like she hasn't done since she first saw her father's body laid out on the ground, cold and waxen.

Dimly, she hears a deep, angry voice ask "Who is here?" Her head snaps up—there is a dark shape in front of her. Her breath catches; it is too large to be Robin.

"Guy?" she tries tentatively, cursing her recalcitrant limbs as she gets to her feet.

"Stay back," the voice says again, and Marian's heart catches when she hears the familiar gruffness. Before she knows it, she is running toward him and wrapping her arms around his neck, his neck that is so very very _alive. _

"Marian—," he says, but she doesn't want to complicate this feeling with words. She grabs his cheeks and kisses him square on the mouth. It is not the most artful kiss she has ever given him—the angles are all wrong and it starts with more bumping teeth than it should—but it is the only one that has ever been free of anything other than sheer happiness.

Then it softens. His hands settle on her waist, but then disappear as he pulls off his gloves behind her back then throws them to side. _I'm sorry_, she thinks, moving closer and doing her best to convey through the kiss that which she can never put into words. There have been too many lies that she drove too far, too much uncalled for subterfuge.

He slides his hands up her back and to her shoulders, slipping them beneath the heavy press of the velvet jacket and sliding it off so that it falls around their feet. The flutter in her stomach is back, only this time it is the panic that comes from not knowing what to do next, not even after listening outside of so many tavern windows. All she knows is that she wants to keep proving Robin's words wrong. There is genuine feeling here. It is not a cold-hearted transaction, it is _not. _

She moves her hand to the top clasp of his jacket, fiddles with it. When it fails to do her bidding, she makes a frustrated noise.

He pulls back, surprised, and she hears him say her name with great uncertainty. His thumb comes up to brush her cheek, the pad of it coming across a tear in the process. He looks down at his hand for a brief second before snapping to attention.

"What is wrong? Are you hurt?" he asks. The fingers of his left hand clutch at her shoulder as he pats her down her side as if checking for gaping wounds. "Tell me what happened."

"Nothing at all happened," she says, voice shaky but happy. "Thankfully."

"Then why are you crying?"

She can't make out his expression in the dark, but the impatience she hears in his voice makes her smile. The relief that courses through her veins is still strong; she feels almost drunk on it. She is horrified to hear herself emit a strangled sound, something that comes out sounding something like a cross between a giggle and a hiccup.

"Were you struck in the head?" he asks, and his complete and utter seriousness makes her giggle harder. There's a short, confused pause before he barks "We need light."

"No!" she protests, suddenly sober. She has never felt more comfortable with him as she does now here in the dark. If they could just stay in the dark forever, she thinks wildly, she may never suffer another qualm about their marriage. But he doesn't listen. "Guy!" she tries again as he grabs the candle William brought earlier from a small stool by the door and leaves.

When he comes back, it is lit. After setting it down, he turns toward her in the flickering light. The shadows it creates cast his sharp features into even starker relief. He frowns.

"You are wearing my shirt."

She looks down at the thin black shirt she had hastily thrown on in the rush to find him. "I suppose I am."

He sucks in a sharp breath. "Marian, you promised me that the Nightwatchman was dead."

"He is!"

"It does not look that way to me." He rubs at his eyes, frustrated. "What great injustice could you possibly have to fix now?"

She does not like the sneer embedded in that last question. "At the moment it does not seem great at all," she says testily, hoping he'll catch her underlying meaning.

But Guy is the thickest, most oblivious man imaginable. "I cannot protect you if you insist on running off every time my back is turned. It is foolish. You will end up hurt."

It is too much. "I was not 'running off'," Marian snaps.

"Of course. You were just taking a midnight stroll dressed in men's clothing," he spits. "I am not a fool."

"That is debatable."

His nostrils flare; before he has time to implode, she closes the distance between them and pokes him on the chest. "I was looking for _you_."

Guy goes completely still. If she were not so annoyed, his expression would be almost comical. Having been caught by her meaning in mid-protest, his mouth hangs open for a half-second before clicking shut. She hears him swallow. "For me?"

She nods slowly. "I had heard that Robin arrived with the Pact of Nottingham. I was afraid…," she stops, the fear that had gripped her so tightly less than an hour before swimming up again for one horrifying second. "I was afraid that you were to be put to death. I would not want anyone to die because of my urging.

"Anyone?" he asks, capturing her gaze. In the candlelight, his eyes are a dark, dark blue. Beautiful, really.

"I would not want you to die because of my urging," she says more softly, and then is shocked to see his lips curve into what would be immediately recognized as a smile if anyone else were doing it. It transforms his face; gone is the hard, shuttered mask she is used to. In its place is something boyish and innocent and so handsome it takes her breath away.

He reaches out before she can react, hooking an elbow around her waist and pulling her toward him. Leaning forward, he places a trail of scorching kisses along her neck that causes an unfamiliar throb to well up from deep between her legs. "And how were you going to save me?" he rumbles teasingly in her ear before giving the lobe a nip.

Something inside her breaks, something that urges her to cut off their connection before she can be sucked in any deeper. This level of intimacy, coupled with the normal unease created by his proximity, is a dangerous combination. She pushes at his chest, feeling the rapidity of his heartbeat beneath the thick leather, and slips from his embrace.

"Tell me what happened with the King," she says, smoothing her hair as she tries to regain her composure. The look on his face isn't helping. He has folded his arms across his chest, but far from being angry, he still smiling. This time, however, it is sly and cocky. "Your name was on the pact, I presume," she says darkly.

The smile disappears. He looks away from her and frowns into the corner. "It was," he says tersely.

"I told you that it was a document of which I would not approve," she reminds him, lifting her eyebrows in a presumptive arch.

He glowers at her. "I am not half-witted, Marian," he says through gritted teeth. "I knew what I was getting into."

"Oh, I am positive of that. What I would like to know is how you got out of it."

"I proved that my loyalties had changed," he says. His voice is sure enough, but his gaze skitters to the side. He is not telling the whole truth.

"Have they?"

"Have yours?" he shoots back, and then closes the distance between them, the distance she has been trying so hard to protect, with two long strides. She tries to turn away, but he captures one of her wrists. His thumb presses against the trembling vibrato of her pulse. His other hand lifts, moves forward as though to caress her cheek, but then drops, becomes a fist. "My loyalties are to you, Marian, and no one else. I have proved that time and time again. But I am not convinced that yours are to me."

"They are," she promises stiffly.

"Are they? I know that you saw Hood."

"He came to see me, yes."

"Most likely to boast of my imminent demise," Guy scoffs. "And?"

Marian refuses to itemize every moment she has ever shared with another man just to assuage his insecurity. "And what?"

Guy's eyelids lower, as does his voice. "Marian, there are things that you are not telling me."

"Robin Hood and I share nothing but the same wish to see England's people free of the plague of fear brought about by men like Vasey," she says. And it is true. Now.

"That is not what Allan said."

She rolls her eyes. "You two gossip like small girls!"

"It is a necessity when you will not give me the truth," he growls. "You were betrothed to him once. And you were helping him this past year. No," he barks and holds a finger up when she opens her mouth to protest. "Don't deny it. You revealed yourself the second you raised a sword to the Sheriff. And there are other things, coincidences I let go because I wanted to believe . . ."

She bites her lip, and it is answer enough. His fingers tighten around her wrist, and she feels a frisson of fear; after all, he has always warned that to be in league with Robin Hood means death. But as she stares at the paleness of his hand in the soft candlelight, she realizes that it is not a threat. Instead it is the grip of a man who is desperately trying to hold on to something he fears that the next few seconds will rip away.

"If you tell me now," he says suddenly. I may show lenience." From his noble expression, it is clear that he believes himself to be a saint. Her anger flashes white and hot.

"Lenience?" she hisses, ripping her hand from his startled grasp. "My feelings, my _choices_, do not need _lenience_. Yours or anyone else's."

There is a pause where all she can hear is her own enraged breathing, and then Guy speaks.

"Have you given yourself to him?" he asks abruptly, his gaze dropping to run over her body as though it might offer up evidence of her maidenhead.

"I am more than my chastity!" she snaps.

"That does not answer the question."

"And _you_ never answered mine. I have a hard time imagining that Richard would be so quick to say bygones. What is that truth, Guy?"

"It is not your concern," he says tightly, leaning forward once again to trespass on her space and all her instincts of self-preservation. "It should be enough that I have promised myself to a man that I hate, a man who—,"

"A man who what?" she asks, leaning forward to counter his invasion.

"Sir Guy," a voice says from beside them. Startled, Marian leaps backward and looks to where Carter's head pokes through the tent's entrance.

"Leave us!" Guy roars, and then turns back to Marian as though expecting total obedience. But Carter is not a castle lackey.

"It is going on two hours," he says firmly. "I need to show you to your tent."

Guy's face contorts. Marian feels the crackle of the gathering storm.

"And I am tired," she says quickly, and only afterward realizes how much it is true. Her normal defenses are in tatters, and she is sick of arguing in circles. He will be angry at her, but that is not new. She can deal with his icy disdain for a few days. Thankfully, she no longer has a house to burn, and she doesn't much care about this tent.

She watches as Guy closes his eyes, watches his jaw tic as he visibly attempts to calm himself down. When his eyes open, they seem lighter. He turns to Carter.

"I will only be a minute." There is still anger in his voice, but it is a pebble where once there was a boulder. Marian has to stifle the flash of amusement that comes from seeing how he raises his eyebrows when Carter fails to retreat quickly enough.

When he turns back toward her, she expects his anger, expects him to set conditions, cold and adamantine, for any future discussions. But instead he sighs, and then bends over to brush her lips in a gentle kiss. After everything that came before, it is so surprisingly unconditional that she puts her hands on his shoulders to brace herself before she knows what she's about.

"We will talk tomorrow of the truth," he says with an edge that contradicts this tiny bit of affection. But then he hesitates. "When we are both less tired," he adds and then walks out to leave her in the company of her own hopelessly tangled thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

**So, Sundays have apparently become my official Guy/Marian insanity day. I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Things are really moving at a glacial pace, and for that I apologize. There's just so much going on behind these two that I might overdo it on the internal monologues . . . but you guys are used to that, right? Right? **

**As always, I LOVE hearing your feedback (concrit, too) Really—it makes me insanely giddy to know people are reading, and I end up rolling around in a fit of joy. **

**Ahem. Anyways. On with chapter 7!**

* * *

Guy wakes to the sound of men shouting at each other. It has been a long time since he has awakened to anything other than the bustle of Locksley's servants or the drawl of an early morning inn, and for one terrifying second, he thinks that he is thirteen again and back among the boys vying to be Vasey's man. But then yesterday comes back in a dizzying rush of images, and Guy remembers that there is no Vasey, not anymore. It is glorious and horrifying all at once.

When he stands to pull on his familiar uniform, his head brushes the low-hanging cloth above him. If he had ever harbored doubts as to where Carter's loyalties lay, the quality of these "lodgings" would have surely dispelled them. The tent, if you can even call it that, is tiny, with barely enough space to breathe; he would not be surprised to hear that it had recently housed King's dwarves. It is also far away from Marian. Guy does not remember much about the night that came after he left her tent—his mind was too full of the unasked questions and suspicions that crashed into each other until it was difficult to know where one began and the other ended. But he does remember the long march through labyrinthine tents, all the while staring at Carter's back and hating how he almost wanted to thank him for interrupting.

He had pushed too hard; he recognizes that. But sometimes the desire to _know _what he is up against, once and for all, claws at the rational part of him until there is nothing sane or reasonable left to hold on to. Guy has always liked plans, and despite Vasey's many slurs stating his incompetence, he is good at them; he would not have been able to rise as he had if that were not the case. Marian, however, delights in thwarting his carefully laid plans for their future, kicking the stool out from under him when he least expects it time and time again. But if he could know what parts of her heart were still tied to the forest, to _him_, he could win. He knows it.

Filled with renewed confidence, he steps outside into the bright sun, squinting against its stringent rays, its punishing heat. He hates this place. Hated it the first time, hates it now. He wants woods (Hood-less, preferably) and trees and land that you can work and live on for years and years. This entire place is soaked in blood, and not just that of the people who have fought and died. It took his life before he had even seen it on a map, it with its constant craving for money.

Something flickers in the corner of his eye, and Guy turns to see a soldier with dun-colored hair studying him with wary curiosity. "Who are you?" he says flatly.

"I am to be your guard until Carter returns."

Guy says nothing, just turns and stalks across camp in the direction of Marian's tent after a weighty glare at his assigned shadow. He will be better today, he promises himself. Calm . . . reasonable. They will understand each other. He won't be overbearing, and she will admit to past indiscretions and renounce Hood once and for all. It's the perfect plan.

But when Marian is not at her tent, the plan begins to waver. He spots the older soldier from last night walking past and grabs his shirtfront, pulling the startled man to the side.

"Where is Lady Marian?"

"Not here," the man says, affronted, before gripping Guy's wrist and yanking his hand away from his collar. "And I won't say any more if you grab me like that again."

Guy would like nothing more than to clout this man over the head, but he manages to restrain his hands to fists at his side. He feels his sudden lack of power and position like a missing limb. "Do you know where she went?"

"She said she had to get out of the tent."

"You thought it wise to let a woman wander around a camp of men alone?" he asks in disbelief.

"No. William is with her." He nods over Guy's shoulder. "They went that way."

The same direction as Hood's tent. What a coincidence, Guy thinks darkly, turning and striding across the camp, not caring when his shoulders bump into unlucky passerby. Lately he had tried to convince himself that Marian's infatuation with Hood was one-sided, a remnant of their youthful betrothal. Hood himself was too cocky, too caught up in his own infuriating heroics to truly care for her as more than a tool to achieve is own ends. Guy still has trouble understanding how the man could have left her six years ago to come to this accursed place. To have Marian wanting to marry you, willing to pledge herself to you without any shred of politics behind it…the idea of it is intoxicating, and something he himself had given up on long ago.

But then Allan had let things slip, little mentions of Robin and Marian as a "them" that burrowed their way into his brain like maggots. They writhe there still. Last night he could barely sleep for the images of their entwined hands, entwined bodies. Images of them laughing together, laughing at him. The sick thing is that it only makes him want her more. He has often wondered if this is his punishment for all of his past wrongs: to want something so much that will always—always—dance out of your reach.

Guy spots Hood's little cluster of tents straight ahead of him. He will not skulk in the shadows this time, no. This time he will stride into the middle and . . . well, do something. Gritting his teeth, he prepares for a fight. He hopes Allan is there so he can yell at him as well. Before he reaches the edge, however, a burst of female laughter swims up from his right. The Saracen's laughter was deep and throaty; this is light and smooth. Marian.

He veers to the side, stepping in between the tents as quietly as possible. For one heart-stopping second he wonders if he is about to see Marian and Hood in a heated embrace. Expecting rage, he is shocked when all he feels is nausea and the sudden desire to leave. He does not know what he will do when his suspicions make that final trip into truth, but he has averted his eyes for too long. He forces himself to walk the final steps around the corner, so intent on steeling himself for what is to come that, when he finds only Marian in the middle of the army's horses, her hand stretched out toward a dark brown mare, he can do nothing but stand and goggle dumbly.

"That was my finger," Marian chides gently as she taps the horse on the nose. "I have no more food. You are lucky the other horses did not see; I did not have enough to go around."

Guy watches as she lifts a hand to caress the animal's jaw, watches as she leans her head forward to rest against its long snout, her dark, wavy hair becoming a shiny curtain that hides them both. "You are beautiful," he thinks he hears her say, voice muffled, "and wasted here."

The warmth in her voice, the openness in her actions catches him off guard. When his courtship of Marian began, he thought that her reserve and icy politeness were a mark of her rank and class, and it excited him that he was close to winning a real noblewoman; her refusals of his advances were only signs of her own high-standing, the quality of the final prize that he was to win. But then as he began to observe her more closely, he saw the façade crack—saw her temper and her passion, saw her arch delight when small things went wrong for the Sheriff. Imagine his surprise when he found that he liked these little bits of humanity even more . . . and his despair when they seemed to disappear every time he tried to draw them out.

The beast snorts into her hair, and she laughs again before drawing back. Guy feels a stab of jealousy that shoots right down into his bones. This is the first time that he has heard her laugh. And she has never smiled at him the way she is smiling at that stupid horse. He coughs.

Marian immediately whirls around, eyes wide, and Guy knows that if she had a weapon instead of a hand full of horse snot, it would be pointed at him. When she sees who it is, she relaxes—only slightly, but it's there. He finds himself oddly pleased.

"Guy," she says, acknowledging him with a small dip of her head and what he would have called a smile before he discovered the ones she bestows on animals. When he says nothing, she sighs. "Must you lurk?"

"I do not lurk."

"Fine. Must you hulk?"

"I do not hulk." He shifts uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "Marian, where is your guard?"

"I seem to have lost him," she says, and then lifts up her heels to peer over his shoulder. "I see that you cannot manage to do the same with yours."

Guy pivots to find his morning guard hovering behind him. It is insufferable that he is to be watched every second of the day. He frowns. When he turns back, she looks amused.

"Perhaps I can give you some pointers," she says, and Guy thinks he hears a hint of flirtatiousness before she walks back to pet her new best friend, the horse. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"

"She is passable."

"Passable?"

"I've seen better," he says shortly, and even though he feels it coming, he can't stop the next childish thought from dribbling through his lips. "I gave you a horse once."

"You did," she says cautiously.

He should stop now, while he still has some dignity, but instead he hears "It was a fine horse—an expensive horse. But you did not like it. You did not like any of my gifts."

The horse has been nuzzling her neck, searching for food, but she puts a hand on its neck to calm it. She meets his gaze, slightly bewildered. "But I did like the horse," she says before stepping behind its neck and hiding from him. "Although I never cared how much money it cost you."

Guy circles around to see her. "You did not like the jewelry."

She refuses to meet his eyes. "I did."

"You never wore it."

"Because it was stolen," she snaps and then hisses in a deep breath, her hand flying up to her lips and fluttering there for a few seconds before she visibly wills it back to stroking the horse's mane.

At first he does not understand the reason for her nervousness. But when comprehension comes, it is swift and cold. "The necklace," he says bitterly, crossing his arms to hide the hands that have become fists, the hands that want to grab her arm and make her look at him. "I was right. You betrayed me to Hood."

As though it can feel the tension, the horse skitters to the side with a disgruntled whinny. Marian says nothing, just tries to calm it with soothing murmurs and gentle hands. But when she speaks, finally, to him, her voice is tense, defiant. "There have been numerous betrayals between us. You lied to me about trying to kill the King. You lied to me about the King returning. Our marriage would have been based on nothing but lies."

"My feelings for you were not a lie," Guy shouts, so loud that the horse backs away from them both. "And what did my political actions have to do with our happiness? The side of me that would have been your husband…" He reaches down and captures her hand. "The side of me that _will _be your husband…"

She tears her hand out of his grasp. "Sides!" she scoffs. "It is always 'sides' with you." She shakes her head in disgust. "It is impossible to love a man in pieces."

Guy waits until the silence threatens to swallow them both before responding. "But you can marry one," he says darkly. He does not know if it is an insult, an order, or a question. Marian's mouth opens with a ready response, but suddenly he does not want to hear it. He turns away. "Marian, I did not find you to argue."

"Did you not?"

"No," he says and rubs at the bridge of his nose to ease the quickly mounting headache. This was not the plan. The plan was to come to an understanding, not be jealous of a horse and dredge up painful history until he wanted to stomp about and shake her. "I wondered if you would spend the day with me. We could . . . talk."

"I do not want to talk of the things you want to know," she says shortly. "And you do not want to answer my questions. Unless you offer a truce, I prefer the horses." As if to prove her point, she walks back over to the mare and pats it on the side.

He sighs. "A truce? What would this truce involve?"

The question throws her off-guard; she had not expected an offer of peace. "I don't know."

"Then why offer it?" he says, and then moves toward her slowly. He watches how she stands up straighter, how her lips purse in that way that both infuriates him and makes him want to kiss her senseless. It reminds him of their kiss last night, before Hood was dragged into it yet again. She was responding to him—he is sure of it. He does not want to damage any fragile peace, but he needs some reassurance that he is not imagining things, that there is something between them. Otherwise there is no reason to keep holding on.

He leans down until there are only inches left between their mouths, wishing that his heart were not pounding like a nervous youth scared to go in for his first kiss. "We do not argue when your lips are on mine," he says softly.

Her head rears back, but her eyes drop to study his mouth before coming up to meet his again uncertainly. He brings his hand up to cup her chin, runs a thumb over her bottom lip, and feels a surge of satisfaction when she doesn't retreat. A surge of satisfaction that travels all the way down to…

"Sir Guy," a voice calls out from behind him, and Marian uses the distraction to back away, turning around and busying herself with the animals.

When Guy turns around, Carter is staring at him with a grave expression. Mother of God. One day, Guy is going to kill him; this was not an interruption that he in any way wanted.

"What do you want?" he asks with what he hopes is an air of the menace to come.

"King Richard has asked me to bring you to the center of camp."

"Why?"

"There is something that he would like you to witness."

Before Guy can ask for more detail, Marian's voice pipes up behind him. "I will come too," she says. Of course now that it involves politics, she is eager to be with him.

Guy follows Carter to the center of camp, Marian scurrying close behind. She can't seem to decide if she wants to walk behind him or next to him or before him or on him. When they are almost to their destination, Guy grabs her hand and pulls her forward to keep from tripping over her.

The first thing they see is the white backs of over a hundred soldiers standing side by side in a large circle. When Carter barks an order, the ones closest to them step back and allow them to pass.

Guy feels Marian's hand tighten on his before he knows what he is looking at. Then he recognizes the bare, bowed heads of Vasey's conspirators. Guy cannot feel a breeze, but tiny tufts of their hair dance and sway. It would be almost graceful if there were not swords at their necks or the heat of bloodlust in the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Guy sees Marian's hand go to her nose, and that's when the smell hits him. It is rank and rotten and coming from a black lump to the side of the condemned men. Even though he had seen that robe every morning for nearly ten years, it takes a few seconds to comprehend that he is looking at the dead body of Vasey. Covered in dust, the robe no longer gleams. It is dull, just like the eyes that peer out from the bloated face. Any grateful feelings that Guy had ever felt for Vasey were bled out of him long ago, but he still feels a flash of shame that someone he professed loyalty to could ever meet such an end. And by his hand.

Dimly, he registers that Richard has stepped in front of the accused. He holds up his arms and turns to address the crowd, his robes gleaming even whiter in the bright afternoon sun.

"The men before you have been found guilty of high treason," Richard booms, turning in a slow circle as though to make sure each and every one of them knows why they are here. As the King turns, some men fidget, some lean forward eagerly, and others look at the ground in distaste. But Guy…Guy feels weight of the King's gaze like a boulder on his chest. This is a message. A message for him.

"They will be executed," Richard continues, refusing to pull his gaze away from Guy's for fear of lessening the impact of his words, "and their bodies will be left to rot in the desert like the foul traitors they are." He nods at the executioners. "On my word," he says and then takes a place next to Guy, standing so close that he can feel the brush of Richard's robes.

Guy begins to panic; he can feel the emotion crawling up from deep in his gut as he tries not to shake. But then he feels Marian's fingers squeeze his hand in the hidden, safe, place between their bodies. So when Richard gives the final command that sends the heads of Guy's co-conspirators rolling into the dirt, all he feels is her palm in his. He doesn't even flinch.

A horse is let into the circle, ostensibly to bear the bodies of the dead men to their final place of punishment. He starts when he feels the clamp of Richard's hand on his shoulder.

"When you are ready, Sir Guy, I have matters to discuss with you in my tent," he says, and then leaves Guy to stand there, staring at the blood-soaked ground before him.

"I am sorry," Marian says softly when the King is out of earshot.

Guy shakes his head even as his fingers tighten around hers. But then her hand, which had been so steady, pulls away. Looking over, he follows her faraway gaze, curious to see what has stolen her attention, and then freezes. Hood is standing across the circle, leaning against his bow and staring at them intently. Guy's head whips back to study Marian's face, marking the red flush of shame on her cheeks, her sudden inability to meet his eyes. Suddenly, all the raging emotions that have been swimming beneath his skin break free.

"When we are married, more than just Hood will know that you are Lady Gisborne. I'm sorry it disgusts you so," he spits to her shocked expression, and then storms off to see what price he must pay for a life that he no longer knows and a woman who is embarrassed to share it with him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks, as always, to those who are giving me such lovely feedback. It makes me ridiculously happy. **

**This scene was supposed to be half of chapter 8, but then it ended up getting crazy long (Blame my Allan love.) Also, I still need to figure out what the hell King Richard is going to ask Guy to do. So in the meantime… runs and hides**

**Disclaimer: I don't own them. The BBC and Tiger Aspect do, much to my despair. **

* * *

If Guy hears Marian call his name, he gives no indication. As she watches his back disappear into the crowd of departing soldiers, she can't help but feel that she deserves to be slung over the horse along with the two men who have just lost their heads as traitors. Giving comfort and then snatching it away . . . . What is wrong with her?

She glares at her offending hand, ignoring the curious glances of the men who mill past. Marian does not like excuses, but if Guy would have only stayed to listen, she could have pled a thousand. She was startled by the strength of his grip . . . her hand was hot . . . she felt a sudden need to do embroidery. Anything except the truth, which is that when Robin looks at her, she is afraid he knows that she does not suffer like a martyr beneath Guy's touch.

Because she does not suffer, she does not suffer at all. And that knowledge burns like a brand upon her skin.

Marian has spent her entire life building up an army of defenses—against people who would frown at her willful streak, against people who would use her as a political tool, against people who would expose her to danger for sticking to her ideals—and Guy would see them in tatters. Conversations with him are exhausting and go nowhere. She teases, he frowns. She retreats, he advances. She accuses, he evades. Every time she gives ground, he wants more. Marian is starting to believe that he is right; the only time they do not argue is when they are kissing. And that thought, the one that puts her mind and body so at odds, is terrifying and confusing all at once. She loves Robin.

Her eyes flicker to where Robin still stands. He continues to stare at her, although now she thinks she can detect a small, knowing smirk playing about his lips as he leans on his upright bow. _Why does he even have that?_ _Who is he planning to shoot in a peaceful camp?_ she thinks darkly, trying to train herself into cynicism. Her heart, however, refuses. It wants to walk over and bury itself in the familiar comfort of his arms, which were once so free of demands. Arms that do not dig up all of her past lies and throw them in her face as though they are not guilty of putting just as many lies between them.

Almost against her will, she begins to walk in his direction. She approaches slowly, tentatively, allowing herself time to study his expressions as one would a map. At first, he seems surprised, and she feels the tiniest spark of indignation; did he think that she would be so cowed by his words that she would hide herself away? But then his eyes come down and she longs to go back to surprise—all that's left now is his defiant leader-of-the-outlaws mask. The one he wears when he faces down the parasitic nobles he detests so much.

This was a mistake, Marian thinks, but now that she is standing before him, she can't very well scurry away. She brings her hand up to shield her eyes, hoping he will think that it is to block the sun instead of to guard her expression. "Robin," she says, still trying to gauge his mood. One thing you can say for Guy—he is easier to read.

"Marian," Robin replies. She has never heard his voice be this . . . reserved.

Her mind races frantically for a neutral topic of conversation. She is about to remark on the hue of the sky when a voice saves her from such trivialities.

"Are you two just going to stare at each other all day, then?" Allan asks from her right. Marian starts; she had been so distracted by her thoughts of Robin that she did not even notice the whole gang huddled to his side. They regard her warily, but she is relieved to see that their gazes are absent of anger. Well, except for Much's. He is scowling at her, loyal to the last drop.

"Are you well, Marian?" Little John asks with his usual straightforward thrift.

"I am," she says quietly. "Thank you."

"Fantastic," Robin interrupts. His voice is almost jovial, but the tenseness in his shoulders, the mean slant of his eyebrows, are not. "We wouldn't want you to be unwell, now would we?"

"Robin-," Djaq begins, but he cuts her off.

"However, there is one person who should not be well," Robin continues. "There is one person whose head should be in a bag on its way to the desert right now. I think you may know him. About yea high, dresses in black like the devil that he is, worked for Vasey until he murdered him like a dog…."

"Well," Allan says brightly, clapping and grabbing Robin by the arm. "This has been delightful, but I think we best be on our way." He leans over to speak in Robin's ear. "Don't say anything that you'll regret," he says gently, but Robin shakes him off.

"I will say what I like, Allan. You of all people have no right to stop me."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't take counsel from traitors. Especially not those who allied themselves with _him._"

Allan rears back, looks a little at sea. "That's a bit harsh, innit?" he says. "I did save your lives back in the barn and all that."

"And we are grateful, Allan," Djaq says, stepping forward. Marian wants to kiss her for trying to stop this from turning even uglier. This is not the Robin that she knows; she can barely breathe for knowing that she is the cause of it.

"Robin," she begins, "can we please talk about this like…"

"Like what, Marian? Like _friends_? I cannot be friends with Lady Gisborne," he says, driving his point home by leaning forward until the green of his eyes fills her vision, just like it did the day before he told her that he was leaving for the Crusades, the day that he escaped his usual weapons practice to meet her halfway between their properties and kiss her until her head felt empty.

When he left, that memory turned bitter; he must have known then, that he was leaving, must have known that she thought it a beginning when he knew it to be a goodbye. And now, even after all of the forgiveness that she has managed to scrape up for him, he will not even meet her halfway. It has always been her running to catch up with his ideals, her trying to understand his need for adventure and glory, his need to work against a system even when it makes everything more complicated. Now that she needs him to understand why she cannot abandon someone she led into a trap, he refuses to even try.

"Please, Robin," she says softly.

For a second, his eyes lighten, and he seems to waver. His hand comes up as though to touch her cheek. Marian holds her breath.

But then it drops. "We are leaving," he barks at the gang, and then starts walking back toward camp.

Much, of course, trots after him immediately; he has never cared for her much as more than a tool to make his master happy. But the rest of them hesitate.

"What are you waiting for?" Robin yells when he sees that he only has one follower.

Marian can only look at him in disbelief. "So I am to be shunned, then?"

His jaw tightens, but he refuses to look her way. "It is better for everybody. You have chosen your side. Leave me mine."

Will goes next. He throws her a sympathetic look, but he goes, and when he nods at Djaq she follows, although not before putting an apologetic hand on Marian's arm. Little John just looks at her for several seconds, squinting as though she is a puzzle. "He will come around," he says gruffly, and then lumbers off. Now it is just her and Allan standing in the middle of a dusty square. Marian looks at him, not even trying to hide the question in her eyes.

Allan frowns at the ground and sighs. "I better be going with them then," he says finally, refusing to meet her gaze, and leaves.

Marian is surprised at how sad it makes her when he finally disappears around the corner, how sad she feels when she realizes that she is really and truly alone. With nothing left to do, she heads back to her tent. If she were not so drained, she might have plotted some way to listen outside Richard's tent to see if she could hear what Guy seemed so desperate to keep from her. But she is exhausted--emotionally, physically, and mentally. She crawls belly-down onto her pallet, folds her arms, and drowns herself in the thoughtlessness of sleep.

She wakes to someone shaking her. At first she thinks that it is Guy, now trying to shake her secrets out of her, and she tenses. But then hear bleary eyes recognize the dark skin and delicate wrists of Djaq. She is crouched down at Marian's side, a concerned look on her square face.

"What is it?" Marian asks groggily, pushing her hair out of her face. "Is Robin okay?" she asks before remembering that she shouldn't care.

"He is fine. He has ridden to Acre with Carter." Djaq stands up and brushes her palms against her trousers. "I was wondering if you would like to help me. I am trying to organize medicine and supplies." She gives a solemn shake of her head. "Their care here, it is not good."

At first Marian is confused—apart from tackling her own scrapes and bruises, she does not have much knowledge of healing. But then she sees the sympathetic gleam in Djaq's eyes, and understands that this is an apology, a peace offering. "I would like that. I would like that very much," she says softly.

"Good," Djaq says with a smile that contradicts her terseness, and then waves her on.

As she follows the Saracen woman back through camp, Marian notices the suspicious looks Djaq receives from the soldiers—a heavily bearded blond man even spits behind them. She feels a wave admiration for the way Djaq continues to walk straight and tall; if anything, their open disdain only puts a spring in her step. By the time they reach yet another tent, this time made of dark green cloth, she is nearly bouncing.

"Here we are." Djaq sweeps back the opening to reveal its spare interior. There is a pile of clean white cloth on a simple wooden table, as well as a few handfuls of dried plants scattered in tiny mounds next to a mortar and pestle. A bowl of water rests in the middle, surrounded by metal implements of various sizes and shapes. "Those need to be cut, those need to be crushed, and those need to be cleaned," she says, pointing to each. "Here is a knife; you start with the bandages."

Happy to have something to do, Marian sets to her task while Djaq picks up various herbs and sniffs them before grabbing the mortar. They work in companionable silence until Marian can take it no more.

"Thank you," she says, wishing Djaq's back was not to her so she could see her expression. "For speaking to me."

"You did not betray me," Djaq says simply. "It is not fair for me to adopt the pain as my own. Especially when your actions saved our lives."

Marian freezes. It is all she can do not to drop the knife. "You think I betrayed Robin?"

Djaq turns to face her, using her thin arms to prop her up against the table. "In a way," she says. "But I did not say that it was not a necessary betrayal. Life does not always allow us to truly follow our heart."

"My heart is with Robin," Marian says fiercely, so fiercely that it causes Djaq's eyes to widen.

"I know that," she says. "And it makes what you have done an even greater sacrifice. But you cannot expect him to be happy about it." She shakes her head, smiles a little. "Even if it does make him act like a child. Men."

Marian starts to smile, but it is wiped away by Djaq's next words.

"Also, Gisborne is his enemy. And a monster. He must be worried."

"Guy is not a monster," she says quickly, cutting a strip and pulling it apart with a satisfying rip. She looks up to find that Djaq's head is tilted to the side, too curious for Marian's comfort. "Are you glad to be back home?" she asks in a ploy to change the subject.

"I am and I am not," Djaq says, sensing that it is time to go back to her work. "It has brought up old memories. It is easier to move on if you are surrounded by only the unfamiliar." She punctuates the last sentence with a smash of the pestle. "I still wonder sometimes if I did the right thing."

"Coming to England?"

She tosses Marian a wry look over her shoulder. "That was not my choice," she reminds gently. "I was speaking of impersonating my brother."

"I think that it was very brave."

"It was . . . impetuous."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I almost talked myself out of it. I was not ready to go through with it until I picked up a blade, cut my hair off, and burned all of my clothing. Then I was committed." She smiles at Marian's confused expression. "You have been with Robin for too long; he wants us all to believe that he is always certain," Djaq says, turning fully around and waving the pestle instructively. "But sometimes … sometimes you have to lose yourself on a road before you can follow it."

Marian would like to ask this pint-sized prophet more questions, but Allan pokes his head in.

"Hey Djaq. Will wants you." He jerks his thumb in the direction of outside.

"For what?"

A flicker of annoyance flickers over his features. "I dunno! It's not like I asked!"

"Excuse me, Marian," Djaq says and strides toward the door as though expecting Allan to move out of her way. When he doesn't, she goes to the left just as he goes to the right. Marian watches, intrigued, as they bump into each other and blush. She is more intrigued when the usually forthright Djaq mutters an apology before pushing her way out. Expecting Allan to follow, Marian is surprised when he instead he sighs and plops down on a pallet in the far corner.

"Things aren't exactly like I imagined," he says, stretching his hands behind his head and leaning back.

Marian can only give a choked laugh at the understatement. "No, they are not."

He chuckles along with her before rolling his head to the side and pinning her with what is, for him, a very serious look. "About how mad would you say Giz is right now? On a measure of about one to, let's say . . . fifteen?"

"Twenty," she says darkly, thinking of the way he hissed in her ear after the executions, but then one look at Allan's horrified expression tells her she's gotten his intention wrong. "You mean at you?"

"Well, yeah."

"He hasn't mentioned it. There have been . . . other things on his mind."

Allan shrugs it off. "Oh, right. Sure," he says, and then squints at her, scratches his chin. "So you're really going to marry him then?"

Marian gives him a sharp look. "That is none of your business."

"I'd say it's everyone's business right about now. My business, the King's business, Robin's business, England's business, the dead Sheriff's business, that horse outside's business…"

"Fine then, yes," she says shortly to cut him off, and wishes that the thought would stop making her throat close up and her stomach drop out beneath her. She was nervous enough about the idea of marrying Robin, nervous about sacrificing any of the little freedom this life has allowed, and at one time she had loved him so much she thought she would die from it, at one time had thought he knew her better than anyone else. Marrying Guy, on the other hand, feels like stepping into a dark cave with only the tips of your fingers and a rocky wall to guide you. She wants to run the other way, run back to the familiar. But then she remembers Robin's impassive face; there is no familiar anymore.

"Yes," she repeats, more for herself than Allan. "I will marry him"

"Well, good," he rambles. "I mean I'm sad for Robin and you and your future righteous babies and all that, but considerin' the situation with Giz's family…"

"What about Guy's family? Guy has no family."

"Well, yeah. Now. But I gather that's party due to King Richard. It's gotta sting a bit, being here."

Marian has very little patience left. "Stop talking in riddles, Allan. You're worse than that fool."

He shrugs. "I don't know all of the particulars; it's just what I picked up from the guards. When they weren't asleep that is," he mutters in disgust. "I'm telling you—worthless! Giz is going to be sorry he doesn't have me anymore if they ever get back to England. . ."

Allan goes on but Marian is barely listening, awash as she is in her unnerving mixture of curiosity and shame. She had never thought to wonder about Guy's motivations beyond power and money, had never thought there were any. Just one more thing she doesn't know about the man she has agreed to marry.

"…And then I said to him, 'You think I sleep too much on the job? I saw you sleeping under the garbage chute the other day!'" Allan snorts before realizing that he no longer has an audience, Marian having sailed off into distraction as she tries to align this new information with everything she knows.

"He loves you, you know," Allan says, regaining her attention in one fell swoop. "I mean, I don't want to get all soggy about it, but the night before you were to be hanged as the Nightwatchman, he was off his gourd. And not like his normal sort of way," he says, demonstrating the "normal way" by making a face and bringing his hands up into claws like some sort of demented badger.

"He cares for me. I know."

"No, you don't," Allan says with impatience. "Just . . . just don't play games anymore, alright?"

"Games? You call protecting the people of Nottingham a _game_?"

"You know what I mean, Marian. Don't bring a hog to the feast and then make everyone eat turnips, that's all I'm saying."

Marian hates the feeling of being scolded—hates it more when it's coupled with one of Allan's crazy sayings she doesn't understand. It makes her want to go on the attack. "It would help if you would stop telling him things about Robin and me."

Allan's eyes flicker to the knife she's holding. He raises his hands in a defensive gesture that makes Marian feel like she may have come on a tad too strong. "Hey," he says, "I never wanted to be in the middle. It would help me out if you could just tell him and be done with it. 'Cause he'll keep asking, you know. He's very persistent and single-minded. Kind of crazed, actually. Remember the convent deal? Not pretty."

"He would kill me."

"Well, that would be pretty arse-headed of him," Allan scoffs. "Give up everything and then kill your reason for doing it? Nah. Then he'd just be left with King Richard and a camp full of men." He looks around as though to see if anyone's listening. "And not very attractive ones at that."

A smile creeps up before she can stop it, and she feels herself begin to relax. At least until Djaq comes in, looking harried.

"Robin is back," she tells Marian. "I do not mean to chase you off. But I think it best for you both if he does not see you here right now."

For what may be the first time in her life, Marian does not want to see Robin. "No, I will go," she says, standing up and startling Djaq with a hug. The smaller woman's hands pat her shoulders clumsily when she backs away.

"It will be fine. You will see," she says.

"Where's my hug?" Allan pipes up from the bed.

"You will get your hug when you stop being a gossip," Marian teases, and then slips from the tent before he can respond.

As Marian walks back across camp, she wonders at her sudden lightness of being. She knows that when she is alone with her thoughts, the panic will return, as will the doubt. But for right now, she feels free, so free that when William runs up to her, panting about losing her and how he is really supposed to be with her at all times, she just smiles at him and lets him lead her back to her tent. And when she is back in her tent, she begins to develop a plan, a crazy plan, but one that might be the first step in showing Guy that she is committed to seeing this to the end—and stopping this constant, terrible feeling of being torn in two.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **_Fallout _(9/?)  
**Rating:** PG-13 for violence.  
**Characters:** Guy, Robin (Guy/Marian in spirit, as always)  
**Word Count:** 4000  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

**Beta:** Dori42 was nice enough to look at this for me; any mistakes were inserted after her edit and are mine entirely.

**A/N:** The show is not very good about sticking to a chronology, so here's the version of history that I am working with. Richard and Saladin signed their treaty for peace in the Holy Land on September 2, 1192, and from what I can tell, the show has them going to the Holy Land in October of that year. So far all intents and purposes of this fic from this point out, we are assuming that the treaty has been signed. Christian pilgrims are allowed in Jerusalem, and Richard is being called back to England. I'm sure that is wrong in nine million ways, but . . . waves hands around maniacally It is so. Also….King Richard fangirls? You might not want to read from this point on out.

There have been some hiccups with the second part of this chapter (or maybe more than hiccups? Belches?) and I need to rework some things. Hopefully, though, I can have it up sometime this week.

As always, comments are LOVED.

* * *

King Richard is toying with him. If the staged executions failed to make it clear, the way Richard makes Guy wait for an audience now proves it. When Guy has finally cooled enough from Marian's rejection to present himself outside the royal tent, he is informed that the King has a visitor and will not be able to see him until later this evening.

As he would rather die than fold himself up again into his tiny sleeping area, he is left with nothing to do but prowl the perimeter of the camp with his ignorant little guard clipping along behind. Although Guy finds him too meek and short to be really threatening, his presence is a constant irritation. Not only is he to be watched like a prisoner, Carter has passed him off to an underling. He does not even merit a member of the King's personal guard.

The scenery soon becomes oppressive—the monotony of the dry, colorless sand, the never-ending parade of white Crusader uniforms, the repetitive slouching of tent after tent after tent. When the late afternoon sun becomes too punishing, he finds an upturned crate by the lonely edge of the north perimeter and sits in the shade. He can see Acre in the distance, resting tiny and squat on the flat desert horizon. He thinks of the Sheriff's house, and his mind begins to whir, tossing up the endless what-ifs that have been lurking at the back of his mind since things have failed to live up to what he now recognizes as love-addled, lust-warped dreams. He should have walked out on Marian when she first started spitting lofty ideals at him; her words that seem so easy and seductive in her lips only turn to ash the second they touch the air of the real world. Now he wishes that he would have told the Sheriff of her plotting, distracted him from taking vengeance on her with some petty promise of cruelty, and then figured out what to do with her later. It would have proven his loyalty to Vasey and gained him favor, and he could have used his newfound power and prestige to win over Marian again, once she finally realized just how it felt to be completely alone in the world. He is quickly coming to realize that he will take any version of her; it doesn't matter what is healthy or right.

The sun begins to sink in the West, turning the sky a hazy, wet violet, and Guy stands to go see Richard again, hoping for everyone's sake that he is not turned away again. As he approaches, an unfamiliar man in black desert garb steps out of Richard's makeshift quarters. He nods knowingly to Guy before climbing on his horse and riding away, an inexplicable gesture that sparks a small flame of unease in Guy's gut. It only grows when he turns around to find Carter behind him, looking at him curiously. Before he can say anything, however, Richard steps from his tent and beckons Guy inside after a few idle remarks about fated timing.

His rough, wooden desk is covered with sealed envelopes and assorted correspondence, all burnished orange by the soft light of a dozen lit candles. Richard takes his usual seat, and Guy sits across from him before he can issue the predictable command. Guy watches as Richard waves out the few remaining guards. When they are alone, he laces his fingers together and leans back, giving a hearty sigh as he stares at the multitude of missives spread before him.

"I am being advised to return to England by everyone. By my court, by my mother, and now even by Robin," he says. "Everyone is plotting against me it seems. If I didn't know better, I might suspect that someone sent you and your Sheriff here to remind me of my obligations back home."

He gives Guy an arch smile that is entirely devoid of humor. Guy says nothing. They call this man lionhearted but he is just as viperous as Vasey. Why can no one see it?

"Are your lodgings suitable?" Richard asks, picking up a quill and rolling it between his fingers. His voice is innocent enough, but Guy knows this is a test of exactly how willing he is to please.

"They are perfect," Guy says and adds a few terse words of gratitude.

"Wonderful." Richard sets down the quill, and then jumps to the next topic without warning. Guy would gamble that it a calculated maneuver to keep one's opponent on his toes. "I told you yesterday that I might call upon you to do a few small tasks in the future in return for my pardon."

"You did, my lord."

"I think that I may have need of you for one large task."

Guy only tilts his head in a silent inquiry. He does not want to seem reticent, but the very core of him revolts at seeming to eager to please this man.

Richard studies him, eyebrows raised in something that Guy takes for a faint mix of amusement and admiration. "You know that I have signed a treaty with Saladin that leaves Jerusalem in Muslim hands."

"I do."

"Christian pilgrims are to have safe passage in and out of the city, of course. I would not have relinquished it without some small victory." He rubs his eyes, reaches to the crown he still wears and takes it off. "And yet it would be false of me to say that I am happy with the arrangement. To come so close to attaining redemption for our Faith, only to be pulled back to that accursed country due to treacherous siblings and petty power squabbles—it is infuriating. But if there were a reason to stay . . ." He stops to glance at Guy, who is intentionally keeping his face impassive. "I may have said too much already."

"My Lord?"

"In the next few days you will leave for Jerusalem as a pilgrim. You will meet with Baldrick, the man who you saw leaving my tent earlier. He is readying things for your arrival. He will have further instructions."

Guy can barely contain his distaste for this project. "And what am I to do in Jerusalem?"

Richard throws him a sharp look. "As I said, Baldrick will tell you. Do not question me further," he snaps, but when he sees how rigid Guy is holding himself, he lightens his tone. "You will be rewarded when you return. We can speak of land, then. And marriage to your lady."

"And how long will that be?" Guy asks darkly.

Richard spreads his hands. "That depends on you."

"Am I to have men?"

"You may take your own if they are discreet."

"I have none," Guy says, mind racing as he tries to divine what kind of mission requires no men.

"Then no." Richard looks down to shuffle his pieces of parchment, then turns to the locked chest where he last stashed the Pact. For a second Guy fears that he is going to take it out and ask him more questions. But he removes a small folded message and a map instead. "Here is where you are going," he says handing them over. "You must be gone within the next three days."

Guy knows that he should not ask any more questions—the memories of the decapitated heads hitting the sand this morning should be incentive enough—but he cannot resist a little bit of useless bravado as he stands to leave. "What is to happen to Nottingham? And Vasey's lands?"

"They will return to the crown until I can find someone worthy of their bestowal." Richard looks over, feigns surprise at Guy's dark look. "You want them?"

"I believe that it would make sense," Guy says tightly, "considering I am already familiar with their day-to-day running."

"We will see," Richard says with a small, patronizing smile. "Although I am nervous about entering into another such mercenary agreement for such a large portion. Your Sheriff bought the post from me, and we have seen how that ended. There is something to be said, perhaps, for nepotism."

At first Guy doesn't comprehend Richard's meaning. "Vasey bought his position?"

"Yes. A mistake, obviously."

Guy struggles to speak over the rage that is swiftly pooling in his stomach. "My Lord, I can assure you that I would not—,"

"You may go. We will discuss it when you return," Richard says, looking down at the papers below his nose, a blatant signal that the conversation is over.

With nothing left to say, Guy gives a terse bow and backs out of the tent, seething all the way. The night air is beginning to cool, and Guy can see the smoke of several campfires rising up in long columns that twist and snake every time there is a gentle breeze. Raucous shouts swim up from his left, where a cluster of men huddle around a game placing wagers. His guard is among them, waving a coin in the air and then tossing it to the center.

Guy stalks away from the fire, nearly shaking with the indignation of being ordered to Jerusalem without any idea of the plan, like he is some sort of illiterate peasant, some sort of dog. And even though it shouldn't, considering his ultimate betrayal, it goads him that Vasey—who delighted in telling his schemes to any person unfortunate enough to have one working ear—had still never trusted Guy with the information that his position had been bought. But at least with everything else he had given him some idea of the _why_, some idea of the final goal.

With the weight of the day crushing down upon him, the need for flight begins to call, loud and insistent. When he passes a row of dozing horses, he stops. If he rides out and comes back, no one will know. He just needs to escape this claustrophobia for one hour—then he can come back and prepare for this final mission, prepare to be free of all of this. Finding a blanket, he throws it over the nearest sleeping horse, which happens to be the one Marian was making eyes at earlier. He gets a spiteful thrill out of how it whinnies in protest.

He is bending over to check that everything is well with its hooves when he hears keening zing whistle by his ear, hears the soft thud of metal digging into wood. An arrow quivers by his cheek, embedded in the horse's hitching post. Before he can turn or seek cover, one hits the dirt, inches from his toe. Then another. Then another.

"I would not make any sudden movements if I were you," Hood says from behind him. "It would be unfortunate if you accidentally took an arrow to the gut. Turn around."

Guy grasps the arrow lodged beside him, pulls it free, then snaps it in two. "I do not have time for your games," he says over his shoulder and then starts to mount his horse. Another arrow swishes past his head, cutting through the crowd of skittish horses before disappearing into the night.

"Too busy running away?" Hood asks.

The fact that Hood—_Hood—_is accusing him of fleeing ignites the tiny scrap of composure that he has left. He draws his sword and whirls around. "I do not run from my problems like a coward."

Guy cannot make out his expression, but he imagines that he is grinning. At least until he speaks.

"You should be dead," Hood seethes. "There is no reason for you to live. Tell me why I should not put an arrow in you right now. Tell me who would care."

No one, Guy thinks. No one would care.

"Why so silent, Gisborne?"

"Marian," he says with false bravado. "Marian would care when I am not in her bed."

Hood chuckles, lowers his bow. "You are a fool if you think that she feels anything more for you than pity and misguided gratitude." He steps forward, with a hint of the old jauntiness. "Have you ever wondered why a woman must be twisted into an impossible situation before she will stoop to marry you?"

"You know nothing!" Guy roars.

Hood tosses his bow to the side, reaches behind his back, and draws out a curved blade. "I know a bit," he says, tilting the blade back and forth so that it picks up stray glints of firelight. "I know that she does not love you."

"And how do you know that?"

There is a flash of teeth. "Intuition."

Guy has no retort that is not a lie, no retort that has any chance of drawing blood. But then Hood steps forward, holding his sword in front of him while spouting something righteous about fixing the King's oversight, and Guy knows what to say. Guy knows exactly what to say.

"King Richard would care if you killed me."

"He only spared you because you were of such little consequence. A worm is still a worm, even if you decide not to step on it," he scoffs, but Guy spots the slight hesitation in his step, the slight waver of the weapon.

He smirks. "You do not send men of little consequence on personal missions."

"You lie!"

"I leave for Jerusalem tomorrow."

Hood shakes his head. "He would send for me."

"Would he? He does not even want to speak to you. He wants to speak to the man who saved him. I have had three audiences in the last day. How many have you had? How many words of gratitude?"

"He would send for me," Hood stubbornly insists.

"We can go ask him if you would like. I can say that you are with me so he will see you," Guy says, his body tense as he waits to see how his taunt will land.

Hood darts forward, and Guy brings his sword up. The impact of jarring metal vibrates up his arm as their weapons clash. Hood has the downward momentum, and even though Guy's muscles strain to fight against it, he feels himself weakening. But then Hood does something unexpected. Lunging forward, he barrels into Guy's chest, and then they are falling, falling until Guy's head slams into the dirt. His sword falls from his weakened grip as Hood's hands wrap around his neck.

"Richard would not be taken in by your lies," Hood spits into his face from above. "Not for one second."

Guy snorts even as he scrabbles to tear the palms away from his throat. He is losing air, but for the first time since he arrived in the Holy Land, he feels triumphant. "You are a fool," he rasps, "if you think he cares what you have been doing for your precious peasants of Nottingham."

The pressure on his throat releases, and the air that rushes into his lungs feels glorious until it is knocked back out of him by the punch Hood lands on his mouth. He feels his lip split.

"Be quiet!" Hood roars, grabbing the front of his jacket. "I have been protecting his people—protecting them from monsters like you and Vasey."

And then Guy laughs, laughs because he knows how sharp and lethal his next sentence is. He leans upward. "Your King sold Nottingham to Vasey," he tells him. "He _gave _Nottingham to Vasey. He didn't care what happened there as long as it showered him in coins for this idiotic war."

Hood rears back. "No! That is not--," he begins, but Guy slams his fist into his nose before he can finish. He falls backward as Guy scrambles to his feet. He leans over and grabs the smaller man's shirtfront, hauls him up and throws him into the post so hard he can hear the wind as it's knocked out of him. Guy reaches inside his jacket and removes the small blade he always keeps close to his heart. He should use his sword, but this . . . this is personal. He presses it against Hood's neck.

"How does that feel?" Guy asks. "Now that your game has no point. Now that all you've done has no point. Now that your heroics impress no one."

"They impress Marian," Robin spits before his eyes widen as though he's surprised himself. Guy is surprised as well; Hood never responds to any of his taunts or questions about Marian, let alone offers any.

"You do not talk about her," Guy threatens, pointing a finger in his face.

"I have more right than you."

"What does that mean?"

Hood tries to break the gaze. "I mean nothing."

Guy presses the claw deeper against the soft flesh of Hood's throat, presses until a bead of blood appears, but he still refuses to speak. Enraged, he backhands him across the face, but overshoots, leaving himself open for the punch in the gut that causes him to stumble backward. Hood runs toward him, but Guy dodges at the last second, reaching out to grab at his waist with the intention of hurling him back to the ground. But he only succeeds in grabbing the leather pouch that dangles at the outlaw's waist. It tears off into his hands.

There is space between them again, space that neither one of them seems intent on closing. They watch each other warily. Hood braces himself against a post as though suddenly dizzy, heaving and wiping at his lip. Guy's chest feels tight and sore. But this is not over.

"No wonder you are so loyal to Richard," he taunts to break the silence, holding his hand up in a pantomime of weighing the pouch. "You are both thieves.

He begins to pluck out the pouch's contents and toss them in the dirt between them. Truth be told, there are not enough coins to adequately prove his point. Cursing under his breath, Guy digs to the bottom, searching until his fingers alight on something jagged and round. He pulls it out and stares down at it. Even in the dim light, he can see that it is a ring. An emerald ring.

"Wearing jewelry now, Hood?" he sneers, checking Hood's reaction. But instead of acting sufficiently emasculated, he straightens up and acts as though he is about to stride forward and reclaim it.

"Give that back," he orders. There is a note of worry beneath the command.

He is missing something. "Whose is it?"

Guy can see Hood strategizing. "Your mother gave it to me," he says lightly, back to his irritating self in the space of a flash. "I am supposed to return it when I see her tonight." He begins to saunter back and forth, and Guy realizes that the other man is desperate to distract him from something, to protect something, to protect a woman.

_Marian. _

And suddenly it all comes together, like a spider furiously spinning her web from scraps of memory. How stupid he's been. All those times he walked into Marian's room to catch her looking at something she quickly stashed before she would touch his arm and smile until he forgot; Allan's slips of tongue; Marian's refusal to marry him even as the soldiers were storming Nottingham.

The humiliation of his proposals spreads, thick and heavy, in his stomach. She had agreed to marry Hood without any tricks, or manipulations, or ultimatums, or killings—agreed to marry an outlaw who had nothing other than an abandoned title and the adoration of the lowest classes all while rejecting his gifts, his money, his position, his protection, his love. He had imagined woodland trysts but never a secret engagement, if only because he thought that Hood could give her nothing as a husband. And now he finds that the only things she wanted were things that he could never have—or never wanted to have.

His fist closes over the ring, squeezes until he can feel the stones bite into his palm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hood bend over, pick up a sword and creep forward. And then a surge of rage comes that is so strong that he blacks out. Or he thinks that he has blacked out, for the next thing he knows, there is red all over the ring and he's bending over Hood's unconscious figure and touching the stream of blood that flows down from the jagged gash over his eye.

It would be so easy to finish him now, to jab a sword straight through his heart, watch him bleed out into the sand. Guy has never killed anyone for reasons other than politics, but now the desire is so strong that he trembles with it, trembles like he did the first time Vasey thrust a knife into his hand and told him to take care of that pesky messenger who had delivered the wrong message and ruined his plans for the evening. When he had hesitated, Vasey had arched an eyebrow. "If makes you so green at the gills, Guy, you may go," he had said. "Ambitious lads sprout like weeds around here. Spend your life fighting for scraps; it does not matter to me." And he had done it, and he had done it again, and then the twinge had disappeared. He had convinced himself that anyone who dabbled in politics was fair game. If the wolf ended up at his door one day, he would accept it as natural. But until it did, he would live as though he didn't care.

But this is a different kind of killing—Guy recognizes that—that will bring different kinds of consequences. Marian will hate him, he thinks, but then cuts himself off; he no longer cares what she thinks. Oh, he will still marry her. He knows that a good man would step aside in this situation, not stand in front of a happy couple, but he gave up any pretense of being good long ago. He will be her penance, but he will make her into his bauble, and she will hate it. They can drag each other down, but at least he will have his lady. He will not give her the satisfaction of letting go.

A raucous shout from somewhere in the camp reminds him of where he is, where they are. He cannot kill Hood. King Richard would care about his death, and the only way Guy will get out of this alive to claim his _prize_, is by staying in the sliver of the King's favor.

Grabbing the man's arms, he drags him toward the outlaws' camp, leaving a trail of blood as he goes. He drops him behind their tent, which is silent and dark. They will find him—he imagines that if this man were gone for more than a day, he would have a country's worth of people looking for him. His future wife included.

The walk back to his bed is a battle between the part of him that wants to tear Marian from her from her bed and the part that wants to prove how much he does not care. He will wait until the morning, he tells himself, when it is more difficult for her to hide in the harsh light of day. _Cold_, he thinks when he is back in his tent undressing. That is what he will be. That is what he is.


	10. Chapter 10

**Just a note--this chapter the rating goes up to M. **

**A/N: **I have been agonizing over this chapter for the last two weeks, and so I think I just have to post it. I wanted to try something different than the usual nervous Guy/Marian wedding-night scenario (although I do, of course, love them) and this is what happened. I never intended it to come out this dark and bittersweet; ultimately, however, it was the only version that felt right. It is also the first thing I've ever written that has anything to do with boy parts and girl parts, you know, _together_, and I found myself fighting the fanfic urge to idealize it. So I hope it comes off like I intended it to--hot/awkward/scary/frustrating/tender.

And yes, Guy is acting like a bastard, and probably should not be rewarded for it, but I felt that someone needed to break, and it was Marian's turn. I also feel that if we are taking her mindset in the finale as canon--and even to some extent the glimmers of recklessness that appear after her father's death--we can assume that she might do something stupid. The morning after will be a doozy.

But anyway, here it is--with a big eek!

* * *

Marian has never had many female friends. Growing up, she despised the girls her age who could think nothing other than the color of their tunic, girls who would simper and flounce when anyone asked them to do anything that took a shred of daring. On festival days, they would wilt in the corners while Marian knocked wooden swords with the boys until her father sent a castle guard to find her.

There was one, however. When Marian was thirteen she met Eleanor, the pale, pink, and blonde daughter of a neighboring Sheriff. At first Marian dismissed her as another dainty wisp of a lady who would faint if you crossed your eyes at her. But she was soon proven wrong when Eleanor happened to interrupt her and Robin playing "I dare," a game Marian had invented one summer morning in an effort to make him stop being quite so pleased with himself.

"I dare you to kiss this toad," Marian had said while holding up her small reptilian prisoner, which she had found trying to hop up the outer wall.

Robin had scoffed. "You are going to get warts all over your pretty hands. And I am too old to play your games."

"You mean that you are too much of a coward to play my games," she had teased, and then watched with delight as he screwed up his face and planted a peck on its bumpy head. She laughed when it croaked away in terror.

Robin had smiled patiently. "Now I have a dare for you, my lady."

"I have told you a thousand times, Robin of Locksley, I will not kiss you. I would rather we bring back the toad."

"So would I," he retorted, hopping up on a fallen slab of rock and squinting as he looked up into the sun. "No, Marian, I dare you to climb to the top of that turret and sit in the window."

She scowled at him; he knew of her fear of heights.

"Scared?" he asked, plopping down and giving her his familiar gap-toothed smile.

He didn't think that she would do it. He was always underestimating her—and Marian _hated _to be underestimated. Screwing up her courage, she stared at the doorway and walked forward.

Robin leapt up and grabbed her arm. "Marian, wait. I did not mean it. It is too dangerous."

"No, I _will. _You will see."

"Forget it, please."

"Let me go," she insisted, stamping her foot until he started to laugh. It only made her more enraged. She was raising her foot to tread on his toe when a high voice called out from behind them.

"I will do it."

They turned to see Eleanor standing behind them in a blue gown, her thick hair in long braids. And then, before either of them could make out what was what, she disappeared into the turret door.

A few seconds later her blonde head poked out from high above. She hopped onto the window ledge, counted loudly to ten, swung her feet back around, and was back down in the square in less time than it took to shake a stick.

Marian was impressed; she would like to think that she would have made it out the window, but it was just as likely that she would have grown queasy after one reckless look downward. Eleanor, however, was unfazed. She liked her even more when she chastised Robin for choosing such a weak dare.

From that point on, time crawled between Eleanor's visits. Two years older, Eleanor was everything that Marian hoped to be. She was smart and opinionated, but managed to hold her temper where Marian lashed out first and thought later, much to her father's eternal shame and worry. Together, they would make fun of the lazy guards, pompous boys, and the visiting nobles with their outlandish furs.

One day, however, after a particularly good laugh over the twelve-inch feather in an earl's cap, Eleanor grew quiet.

"I am to be married," she had said softly when Marian asked her why she was no longer laughing. At first she thought someone was coming; they were, after all, hidden behind a pillar in the great hall.

Marian could only ask the dumbest of questions. "To whom?"

"A friend of my father's. He is old. His first wife died."

"How old?"

"Forty-seven."

"But you are fifteen!"

"My cousin wed at thirteen," Eleanor said simply, but Marian could hear the tremble in her voice.

"And you have agreed?"

"I have no choice. It was arranged for me." She looked down at her hands. "It will happen in two weeks."

And it did happen in two weeks, and Marian did not see her friend again until a year later, and when she finally did, Eleanor did not act like Eleanor anymore. She was still very pretty, but she never smiled and her eyes flitted from dish to dish without taking anything in. Her husband, a grey and jowly man who sucked at the bones of his meat long after they had been stripped bare, kept his hand on her arm during the entire supper.

Marian waited until after the platters had been cleared to find her. Before she could even say a word, Eleanor hugged her tightly, giving Marian the chance to feel how thin she had become. When Marian asked if she was well, Eleanor only shook her head. "My husband, he is a cold man," she whispered before the man in question strode toward them with a frown. Six months later, Marian learned that Eleanor had died in childbirth.

After that, Marian felt as though there was an invisible axe over her head; marriage could befall her at any time, and to any man. When Robin had finally asked her father for permission to marry her, Marian thought she would cry with sheer relief. He was young, she knew him to be good, and she had been in love with him for years.

But then he had abandoned her, and she had cried, half because she wanted to marry him, but half because she felt as though he had thrown her to the wolves. That feeling only grew stronger when Vasey appeared a year later, Guy in tow. Here, she thought bitterly, was the axe.

He did not approach her at first, just fixed his eyes on her whenever Vasey was not yammering in his ear. She felt his gaze everywhere—on her lips, on her collarbone, on the nape of her neck, even on the curve of her waist. He would look away when she caught him, but its presence would linger.

One night she and her father were forced to attend one of Vasey's elaborate banquets, the ones he used as subterfuge for his wicked plans. The flagons of wine glinted in the candlelight, and Marian noticed that Guy's made more than one trip to his mouth. Later that evening he had approached her and her father, striding forward with a determined expression and then wavering in the last few steps. He had barked a few words about visiting them at Knighton the next day, and her father had agreed. Now that it was the appropriate time for him to look at her, he never even glanced her way.

"I will die," Marian had said to her father when Guy was back at Vasey's knee, "before I marry that man."

Edward had looked at her sharply, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. "Marian, we cannot afford to have such dramatic thoughts."

And it was true. By the time she was trapped into the engagement with Guy, she had learned that dramatic thoughts were a luxury. Robin's return had caused a momentary lapse—a lapse that becomes more and more obvious as she listens to the bustle of men outside her tent here in the Holy Land.

She misses the rhythms of the castle, the ebb and flow of servant chatter, the cool silence that would descend in the afternoon when everyone was either out or in their own chambers. Here there is a constant buzz, and she is getting quite the education from all their talk of girls back home. That is, when she is not desperately trying to talk herself into following through with her decision to marry Guy as soon as possible, before she can be blown in any other direction.

_This is your choice, _she tells herself, staring up at the softly swaying canvas and trying to ignore the hum of insects that fling themselves against the corners in their attempts to find an exit. _You chose to trade yourself to save the King, for better or for worse. If this is a trap, you set it._ The reminder is both comforting and terrifying. So is the realization that her feelings have changed since the last time she was facing marriage to Guy. Then she had felt that she was trotting stupidly toward Eleanor's fate with no hope of understanding the man she was to sleep beside for the rest of her life.

But now . . . now she does not know if she is wrong to hope. She is startled to realize that, despite everything, she has come to view him as her friend. A disconcerting friend, but a friend nonetheless. His scrutiny still unnerves her and makes her want to draw her defenses closer, but the sensations it causes are no longer unpleasant. _In time, _she thinks, borrowing his phrase, before she trails off into more dark thoughts.

When the light has dimmed and it is evening, she forces herself to ask the man outside if he knows where Guy's tent is. He does not, but sends someone to find out. As she waits, her resolve stutters when she realizes that if she does this, she could be a married woman at this time tomorrow. By the time the messenger returns with information, it fails her completely. Tomorrow, she promises herself. Tomorrow morning.

She sleeps in fits and starts. Each time she wakes, shift sticking to her back, she can feel her bravery slipping, cracking apart. The last time she dreams of Robin bending down to give her a kiss, and her eyes fly open. _Now, _she thinks. _I have to do this now._ Getting up, she wraps a blanket around her shoulders and searches for her clothing. She scrabbles through linens looking for something to wear. _It does not matter, _a small voice insists. _Just go. _

A quick peek outside confirms that the camp is deserted, except for poor William, who is unlucky enough to have the night shift. His snores are accompanied by a wheezy whistle. Marian slips out the door, and sets off through the maze of cloth and metal.

She finds Guy's tent without much trouble. It is smaller than hers, she notes with surprise, and located by one of the few torches left burning. When she steps inside, it gives the interior a hazy orange cast, as though she had stepped into a smoldering hearth.

Guy is stretched out on the pallet, stomach-down, his face turned away from her. He wears no shirt, and Marian feels the first drop of hesitation; in the past, she has not been her most astute when faced with his bare chest. She bites her lip, bends down, and shakes his shoulder gently.

"Guy," she whispers near his ear, repeating it a little more loudly when he doesn't stir.

He rolls over, and she jumps back, preparing the speech that has been running through her mind since this afternoon. But he does not open his eyes, just throws an arm over his face so all she can see are his nose and lips, the latter of which look much fuller now that they are relaxed. Her eyes drift downward of their own accord, then snap back up to his face when she realizes that he is only wearing braies and they are molded to…well, to everything.

"Guy." She shakes him with more force, and then stops. This was a mistake—she will go back to sleep and stick with her original plan. But just as she is standing up to go, he speaks.

"What is it?" he mutters, his voice foggy and distant.

He is still half asleep. She should wake him the rest of the way before she starts, but this feels safer. She can try out the words, hear them aloud. "I want. . ., " she starts and then corrects herself. "I mean, I _wish_ for us to be married as soon as possible."

"Cannot be married yet."

That was the last thing she expected. "Why not?" she asks, sounding more affronted than she would like.

"King," he mumbles and twists as though to roll back over.

She puts a hand on his shoulder, holds him steady. "What about the King?"

"Horrible."

She doesn't understand. "But we need to be married now. We need to be married now or else--,"

All of a sudden his hand snakes out and wraps around her waist. He pulls her on top of him, pulls her head down for a kiss. "We cannot have the wedding," he says huskily into her lips, "but we can have the wedding night."

"What? No!" she cries, startled, and pushes against his chest, but he holds her in place. Her skirt is tangled around her legs, the backs of her lower thighs exposed to the night air.

In a panic, she looks down. His eyelashes are still fanned against his cheeks; he is half-asleep. She pinches his arm. Hard.

He snaps awake, blinking up at her. For a second the only expression on his face is confusion. But then he says her name like it's a curse, and he takes in her loose hair, her bare arms, and the dipping bodice of her shift. His gaze goes hot, and her chest flushes warm. Before she can figure out what that means, however, his fingers clamp on her arms.

"What is going on, Marian?" he growls with no trace of his previous warmth, dragging her forward until she is only inches from his lips.

She is too rattled to respond coherently. The skin of her inner thigh is touching the trim sides of his waist. "I came to ask...that is, I came to say--,"

"What?"

"I think we should be married as soon as possible," she says, expecting him to be overjoyed. She attempts a weak smile.

"The King will not marry us until I have proven myself. But why…" His eyes narrow, and then he suddenly releases her arms as though they were hot pokers. "You are with child," he says. "_His _child."

It takes a few moments for his meaning to become clear, and when it finally does, it succeeds in snapping her out of whatever daze she has fallen into. "And you are _demented_," she hisses, scrambling off of him. She grabs her abandoned blanket and wraps it around herself. "This was a mistake," she says shortly. "I am leaving."

But he is too fast. Springing up, he blocks her way, moving in front of her whenever she feints to the side.

"Why else would you visit me in the middle of the night, half-dressed, and then beg prettily for a hasty marriage? I will not raise his bastard," he seethes. "You will get rid of it."

"I will not!" she snaps from force of habit, and then realizes that by saying that, she's just confirmed his ludicrous accusation. "There is nothing to get rid of. Now get out of my way." She moves forward, but he refuses to budge, and she runs into the hard wall of his shoulder before retreating to study his face, dark and shadowed in the dim light. He is angry—the last time she felt this level of tension rolling off of him, he was standing in Knighton Hall with a torch—but she cannot for the life of her figure out why. "Guy," she says, trying for a softer tone. "I am sorry that I pulled my hand away this afternoon—it was cruel of me. But I will not stand here and listen to your base accusations."

He rocks backward onto his heels. "_Base _accusations?" he spits, grabbing her arm and dragging her over to the bed before she knows what is happening. She kicks at his knees, but she has no leverage to stop him from shackling her wrists and trapping her legs between his. She can only curse at him as he bends over and digs something out of a pile of clothing at their feet. He thrusts what he finds into her hands, closes her fingers around it. "That is what I have to say to your _base _accusations."

Marian stops fighting when she feels the jagged prick of a dozen tiny points arranged in a circle, the cool press of a central stone. She has clutched the ring in secret too many times not to recognize it immediately.

"Say something," he growls, hands tightening around her wrists.

Her sense of self-preservation takes over. "It is not mine," she says dismissively, and flicks the ring behind her as though it were an apple core.

"Stop _lying_!" he cries, and then closes his eyes. When he opens them, his voice is more restrained. "You think you are so clever with your little evasions, but I have heard the truth from Hood himself."

Her heart thumps. Robin gave her away? No. She cannot believe it. But then she remembers his face this afternoon, the coldness in his voice. "What have you done to him?"

"Done to him? _He _attacked _me._ And so he got what he deserved." Her panic must be plain on her face, because he sneers down at her. "Don't worry, he is still alive. I am sure his band of imbeciles is taking good care of him."

After the rush of relief comes the sudden realization that she should be worrying about herself. She tenses, mind scrambling to figure out how she will defend herself if he lashes out at her with more than words. But just when she expects him to attack, he retreats, letting go of her wrists and putting as much distance between them as possible. She starts to get up, head for the exit, but he points a finger at her.

"You stay there," he orders, beginning to pace. "We finish this tonight."

She moves to the edge of the bed. "Finish what?"

"Your lies. My foolishness." He throws her a sharp look. "How long, Marian? How long were you teasing me with your flattery and attention while you were secretly betrothed to him? Since you were brought to the castle?"

"No!"

"Since he _returned_?"

"How is that even possible?"

"Do _not _answer a question with a question," he orders. When she does not respond, he gives a dismissive snort. "Are you even able to tell the truth?"

The question strikes a nerve. "I tell the truth to those who deserve it."

He whirls around to face her, eyebrows raised. "And I do not deserve it? I have changed my life for you, Marian. I have given up everything. I have debased myself to serve the man who was the cause of my family's ruin—all because of love for _you_."

A stab of guilt causes her to shift uneasily. But she is also too angry to sit here while he yells at her for freeing him from a man he should not have been serving in the first place. "You debased yourself the minute you tied yourself to Vasey!"

"I had no _choice!_"

"Everything is a choice!"

"And whose words are those? Hood's?" He moves forward again until she has no choice but to scoot back. "It is not a choice when you are twelve and your parents send you away because they no longer have the means to keep you! What would you have had me do?" he asks bitterly. "Run to the forest? Become a miniature outlaw? Tell me, tell me what I should have done. I am tired of feeling guilty for things that I have no way of changing."

He crouches down in front of her, demanding an answer. She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes. She can only stare at her hands.

"How pretty it must be to live in your world," he mocks. "Grow up, Marian."

And with those three words, the anger is back. "But when you were an adult," she insists, "once you had that trunk of money you were so proud of…"

"Do you honestly believe that Vasey would just let me go with my head full of his plots? I would have found a knife in my back the second I turned to leave." He gives a short, sharp laugh. "The sad thing is that I did try—when the Gisborne lands were offered again to raise money for this doomed campaign, I tried to reclaim them with the wealth I had saved from years in Vasey's service. And do you know what I was told by King Richard's emissaries? Not enough. Not enough to take back the lands that were lost in the support of _him._"

"I did not know," she whispers, but he is too worked up to listen.

"And now," he continues, "now I am here and forced to serve that man or lose my head.And the woman that I stupidly love, the woman that I stupidly did it for, treats me like a dog. She will not even look at me."

Her head snaps up. "I do not treat you like a—"

"You do. But that is done." He stands up and backs away. "I am finished begging for scraps."

Marian should feel elated that he is backing out, but all she feels is hollow, guilty. "So you will shun me, too?" she asks, staring into the corner to muffle her emotion.

"Shun you? Hardly," he says. "I will hold you to your promise."

"You would marry someone you hate?" she asks in disbelief.

He surveys her with cool detachment. "You will."

"I do not hate you." He expels a doubtful huff. "I do not," she insists.

"You do not love me," he says, and then turns to stare in a corner of his own.

"There are emotions between love and hate, Guy!"

He does not speak for several moments, giving her the chance to study him. He folds his arms across his chest, angles his body to the side. He refuses to look at her, and she wonders when she lost the desire to run. The flickering light accentuates the muscles of his biceps, the dark stubble on his jaw. His handsomeness strikes her as it usually does—randomly, without warning, and at the most inconvenient times.

"Like what?" he suddenly asks, grudgingly, as though his curiosity had gotten the better of him. When she doesn't immediately respond, he snaps, "Never mind."

"I care for you, Guy."

"You care for horses and peasants."

"It is not a competition!"

"It does not matter what you feel for me," he snaps. "I do not need to love you to bed you."

She sucks in a breath. The words were meant as a slap in the face, and he watches for her reaction. Her pride tells her to go, to stand up and try to storm out again. But her conscience recognizes that these are the pieces of something she started long ago. They will cling to her wherever she goes.

For once, she bites back her anger. "I do not want a cold marriage," she says softly.

His head turns toward her, and for a moment she sees genuine surprise before he coaches his expression back to inscrutability. "Well, Marian, that will be difficult considering that you pull away whenever I try to get close as though my touch revolts you."

Of all the accusations he could throw at her, this one is the most asinine. "Your touch does not revolt me! You do not listen to me."

"No, I do not trust you. There is a difference," he patronizes. And then smirks.

The temper she's been holding in check bubbles over. When she tells him the truth, he throws it back in her face! She reacts before she thinks, standing up and crossing the space that divides them until she is inches away from his body, looking up into his uncertain face. "Trust this," she says before pulling him down to meet her lips.

At first he does not move. His arms do not clasp around her back, his mouth does not return her kiss. He holds himself rigid. She is starting to feel embarrassed . . . and rejected. Flustered by how much that disturbs her, she moves in closer and presses the length of her body against his. Her breasts rub against his chest, and the friction created by the thin material of her shift teases her nipples to attention. He is still not responding.

And then he breaks. He groans low in his throat, opens his mouth, and teases her bottom lip with his tongue. His hands go to the small of her back before they cup her bottom and pull her the rest of the way against him so she can feel his hardness pressing against her abdomen. She has overheard enough servant chatter to know what that means. Some of her bravado leaves her; her body still tingles where it meets his, but her back goes cold. She starts to retreat, but he picks her up and moves toward the bed. She feels herself falling, feels her back land on the bed, and then she is staring up into his face.

His eyes slide down her body, and she begins to regret her rash action. She wanted to prove a point and wipe that smirk off of his face, but now she is out of her element.

She says his name tentatively, struggling to figure out what words should come next. Just when she can see one glimmering in the distance, he runs his hand up her outer thigh, leans over, and teases her nipple through the cloth of her shift with his tongue. Whatever she had to say comes out as a squeak as his hand comes up to palm her other breast. She finds herself arching into it without thinking. The spot between her legs begins to ache.

Suddenly he pulls back. He shakes his head. "Tell me something true," he blurts out.

"I do not understand."

"Tell me something true," he repeats as his thumb make a lazy circle around her nipple.

She hisses in a short breath. She cannot think—her brain feels like cotton wadding, like two pieces of rope that won't connect. "A truth about what?"

"A truth about me. About you. Just…," he trails off, and curses beneath his breath. "Just give me this one thing."

This would be the perfect time to call a halt to everything. Instead, she arches her neck up in an attempt to regain his lips, to stop her mind from running in circles. But he turns his cheek, and she is forced to fall back.

"One thing, Marian."

She does not know what to say—after their previous conversations, any declaration of love will sound false. She watches his lips compress as his face begins to go cold once again.

"I wanted to come back to the castle," she says in a rush. Only when she hears it aloud does she realize how true it is.

"What?"

"When you . . . rescued me. I wanted to come back. I hated the forest. I felt trapped."

"There was no convent," he says darkly.

"No."

"You were with Hood."

"Yes."

"But you wanted to come back."

"I . . . I did."

She watches his emotions do battle across his face. His jaw tenses, he looks to the side, and she wonders if she has been too foolhardy. He claims to want honesty, but that may have been too much, too fast. She rarely worries that he will hurt her. Perhaps she should. Just as she is readying herself to fight back if he becomes violent, however, he brings his gaze back to hers.

"You and Hood are finished," he orders, but she can detect the glimmer of a question beneath it.

She exhales. "We are," she says, and forces herself to move past the twinge. The warm flush spreading through her body helps her forget.

"No more lies, Marian."

"I have not been the only liar."

The silence grows thick around them. "For either of us," he mutters grudgingly, and then waits.

But she doesn't speak. Instead she reaches out a hand and touches his bare chest, trailing her fingers down over his nipple and to the flat plane of his stomach. When he shudders, she pulls back. "What is wrong?"

He gives a choked laugh. "Nothing," he says, voice hot. "Do it again."

She does, and is rewarded with the hot row of kisses down her neck. _She is doing this_, she thinks with the part of her brain that is still functioning. There is something exciting about doing this outside the rigid structure of weddings and wedding nights and dowries and witnesses, something liberating. She is enjoying the feel of his stubble as it rasps across her collarbone when he tugs at her shift. He pulls it over her head and gently untangles it from her hair. The night air hits her skin just as she hears him suck in a deep breath. He leans down and takes a nipple in his mouth. "Beautiful," he says, and the word vibrates against her chest.

He kisses his way down her body like he is staking claim; it should anger her, will anger her, she knows, if she thinks about it later, but right now it feels too pleasant to care. He pauses when he reaches her scar. His breath tickles as he hovers above it. Then he continues to move downward. When she realizes where she is going, she tries to clamp her legs together, but he stops her, holding her thighs. His tongue darts forward presses against the spot that has been throbbing since he first laid her on the bed. Her hips buck upward, and she hears herself cry out. He does it again, causing a wave of pleasure to ripple all the way up to her chest.

The gentle pressure of his tongue ceases. "Did he make you moan like that?"

The implications of that question—and the annoyance it brings—cut through the fog pleasure. "Guy, I have not… I think you believe that I—," she starts, but gasps when his tongue returns. "This is my . . . I mean to say," she tries again, but then she feels his finger ease inside her and she is lost.

"God, you are tight," he says thickly, and moves back up her body and toward her mouth, bringing her knee up with him. "I need to be inside you," he whispers in her ear as she hears the scrape of leather ties as he works at the front of his braies. Once they are off, he wraps her leg around his back and presses forward until she can feel the tip of him pressing against her sex. She feels a flutter of panic. This is happening too fast.

"Guy," she says, just as he thrusts forward. The pain it causes is sharp and obliterating. As her body convulses around his, she bites his shoulder to keep from crying out and buries her face in his neck. If she moves, she will fall apart.

He has gone completely still, except for his arms, which tremble as he tries to keep his weight from pressing down against her. He begins to murmur a litany of apologies into her hair. "I can stop," he says finally, but she only shakes her head. "Do you want me to continue?" She shakes her head harder as he clumsily rubs at her back.

She takes a few deep breaths, feels the pain's jagged edge begin to soften. She shifts her hips, bumps them up. He hisses her name. She does it again, liking the sense of power that comes from seeing his reactions, liking when he moves forward gently, even though it makes her wince. He stops.

No," she tells him. "Keep going."

He buries his head in the crook of her neck and thrusts inside her again. This time she just digs the pads of her fingers into his shoulders, and he begins to move more steadily. The pain is still there, but so is the ghost of the previous pleasure. It is the strangest sensation that she has ever encountered. She is making small noises in his ear, and she is possessed with the desire to nip his neck. When she gives in, it only causes him to move harder, quicker.

All of a sudden he raises his head. "Look at me," he says.

She tries to meet his eyes, but it is too intimate. It will make everything real.

"Look at me," he repeats, and thrusts inside her sharply, causing a bolt of pain-pleasure to jangle all the way down to the soles of her feet. "Marian, please."

She forces her gaze to connect with his. In the dark she cannot make out the color of his eyes, but she can see them widen in happy surprise. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip, and he brings it up just as he moves down for the deepest thrust yet.

She feels a rush of warmth between her legs, and then he collapses on top of her. The rapid beat of her heart races between their bodies—it stays fast and brisk even as his slows. Now that she is beginning to feel sore and sticky instead of flushed and overheated, the enormity of what she's done hits her hard, and her breath hitches. There is no going back from this.

Suddenly she needs space, needs it more than air. She pushes against his shoulders, causing him to raise his head. He looks down at her questioningly.

"Can you please…," she starts but then falters. How do you ask someone to get off of you after you've just let them do _that_?

Nevertheless, he understands. His eyelids droop, and his lips twist into a cynical smirk, but he rolls away from her. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he lies there, not bothering to cover himself.

She scoots away and wraps herself in as many blankets as she can find. Left with nothing to do but stare upwards, she can only think of how she knows nothing about the person beside her. Not even the basics.

"How old are you?" she asks suddenly, turning toward him. At first she wonders if he has fallen asleep. But then his voice rumbles up from beside her.

"Thirty….two? Three? I do not know."

"But . . . when is your birthday?"

"August."

"Your birthday is the entire month of August?"

"I do not know the exact day."

She rolls back, stares up. "I do not know anything about you," she whispers, but if he hears her, he does not respond. She hears the rustle of bedclothes, turns to find that he has covered himself with a sheet and shown her his back. By the time she drifts off to sleep, she has met it with her own.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **_Fallout _(11/?)  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Characters:** Guy/Marian  
**Word Count:** 4000  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

**A/N: **I have been so caught up in writing this that I have not being doing any of the things I need to be doing, i.e. reading manuscripts, doing laundry, eating things that do not come in plastic cups, or cleaning for this imaginary visitor my roommate has insisted will be coming "tomorrow" for the past few days. Originally this was going to include another scene, but I have to take a break and concentrate on actual work—so onward I post!

I'm not sure the food they eat here is in any way time/climate appropriate (although I did play around on Wikipedia. I learned a lot of interesting things about grapes). The food is however appropriate for neuroses and/or sexiness, which is all that I wanted.

Every time I read this, the tone feels different. Sometimes it is dripping in angst and other times it reads like the Guy & Marian awkward comedy hour. So looking forward to hearing your thoughts. As always, I love comments so much that it is possible they will take out a restraining order against me.

* * *

The third time Marian knees him in the back, Guy wonders if it is on purpose. He does not know if she is always this restless, or if what happened tonight has made her so, but whatever the case, she is getting her revenge. He had always expected her to be a dainty bedmate. She is not.

When she gets up in the middle of the night, he hears the shuffle of sand, a muffled curse, and then a sigh of relief. He fakes a half-yawn and turns to see her slip her shift over her head, but not before he gets a heady glimpse of shadowy hips and the dark under-crescent of a silhouetted breast. As he watches, she brushes aside the flap of the tent and looks outside. Just as he is about to sit up and snap that he will walk her if she is so eager to leave, she lets it fall, and he closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught starting. He hears the crinkle of padding as she lies back beside him, senses her gentle weight.

Once she has stopped fidgeting, Guy allows himself another peek. She is hugging the edge, knees drawn up defensively so that all he can see is the curve of her back. There is less than a foot between them—he could easily trail a finger down the length of her spine or place a hand in the dip of her waist—but it feels like an entire country. A large, bristling country full of hidden traps and murky waters.

As her breathing becomes more even, her limbs relax. Without warning, she turns over onto her back, her face shielded by a wild mass of hair. He can see the point stubborn chin and the bow of a bottom lip, but nothing more. His gaze drops to the subtle jut of her breast, the smooth contours of her legs, and the lingering afterglow of sexual pleasure sparks to life. He is almost thankful when, rolling the rest of the way toward him, she nearly pokes his eye out; it reminds him of the danger.

He is still angry, but not nearly as angry as he wants to be. To be honest, a good deal of the rage that still burns in his gut has switched sides. While it taunts him for being so easily won over, the resentment he still feels toward her is inconveniently tangled up with the memory of how smooth her thighs felt wrapped around his waist, the sounds she made as she arched beneath him. He is scared to unravel it, afraid that it will cloud his judgment even more.

He had been so sure that she was on a seduction mission. Marian is determined to be a martyr—it was plain then, it is plainer now. But her angelic sacrifice would have been tarnished if it became clear that she was weighted down by another man's child. He had expected her denials, but not her entreaties against a cold marriage. When she had met his challenges with promises, the poison of hope had begun to flow in his veins once again; it surged even stronger when she kissed him.

Suddenly he was convinced that the only way to staunch it was to take what he had desired for four years. Once he had her, his brain insisted, he would be fine; he could settle back into a sea of blessed numbness and deal with the evidence of her betrayal later. There was also the insidious whisper that it may be one of the few times she would welcome him eagerly; that alone was worth twenty bastards.

But then, somehow, it turned into the most erotic disaster of his life. Guy had never been with a virgin before, but he knew enough to recognize her gasp of pain for what it was, knew enough to belatedly realize what she was trying to tell him. He had felt like a brute, yes, but he had also experienced a rush of delirious joy. He had claimed something of her that Hood did not; if he feels even a hint of shame over how happy that makes him, the scraps are well hidden. The joy is, however, tempered by one realization: having her has done nothing to stem his desire. If anything, it is stronger than ever. She had told him that she could not love a man in sides; he only sees sides, and yet he loves her all the same.

That is why he has to leave today. He will go to Jerusalem and finish up this business with King Richard so he can return, marry her, and end all this confusion. It is foolish to think that things will be simpler when she is his wife and he her husband—he knows this—but at least then he will have rights. At least he will have control under God and the Law, if not within the realm of his own emotions.

Bracing himself on his arms, he starts to climb over her sleeping form. Hovering over her chest, he hears the swift hiss of a quickly drawn breath. He glances down. The torch outside failed hours earlier, and the early morning half-light paints her eyelids a cool violet and her mouth a pale rose. She looks to be asleep, but her eyelashes flutter. Guy is tempted to kiss her, to see if whatever rare stars aligned in her head last night are still in position. But then he remembers her immediate retreat, the press of her palms pushing him away, and it reminds him that he can still not pinpoint her exact motivation. Was it an apology or a challenge? A promise or a taunt? Whatever her intentions, it feels like a proclamation of the latter. _See how much power I have over you_, it says.

Guy moves the rest of the way over her and crosses to the stand that holds a small basin of water. As he splashes it over his face, he senses her eyes on his back; when he turns to check, however, she is still and silent. He continues to dress, forgoing the outer jacket due to the heat. In the middle of pulling a thin black shirt over his head, it occurs to him that the camp is waking up and here she is with nothing fit to wear outside.

Her recklessness brings a rush of anger, but it is mixed with a hefty dose of fear. He must leave or lose his head, and here she seems to be possessed by one insane idea after another. It is testament to his own weakness that he has been sucked into most of them.

"I am going to find you some clothing. Stay here," he tells the silence. It comes out more sharply than he intended; he thinks he sees her shoulders tense.

There is no guard waiting outside for him, a fact that Guy notes with surprise and a good deal of relief. A single Crusader trudges past, leading a reluctant horse by a taut rein. A few men huddle in front of a tent several paces away, casting idle glances in his direction. Considering the particulars surrounding his presence here, you would think that they would be more alarmed, but he is beginning to see how tired the entire camp is, just how ready they are to return to England. All but for their King.

As he makes his way to Marian's tent, he begins to wonder if she knocked out her guard. His fear grows stronger when he sees the slouched figure poised before its entryway. He really wishes that she would stop punching people.

Fortunately, the man turns out to be asleep instead of unconscious. It is the young one, the one who looks like he is sixteen. No wonder they have not reclaimed the Holy Land, Guy thinks darkly.

He nudges the boy with a toe. "Get up," he orders, and then nudges harder.

The guard blinks up at him for a few seconds before springing to his feet. "Sir Guy. It is early. Lady Marian is not—,"

"Lady Marian is not inside," he finishes, and then smiles when the boy goes white. At this point, Guy is fairly certain that no one would sound an alarm, but he can use the man's fear. "What is your name?"

"William," the boy says morosely. "We have to tell someone."

"No we don't. She is with me," Guy snaps. "If anyone asks, she is in there and does not want to be disturbed." He holds up a change purse, dumps out a few coins. "But I have a favor to ask."

William's eyes dart to the side. "What sort of favor?"

Guy bites back frustration. Things are easier when you can yell at a guard and have him scamper off to help. "I need you to procure a few things for me. And then no one needs to know about the sleeping."

It takes a few more threats, but William finally agrees to try his best, and Guy moves on to making preparations for Jerusalem. It is an infuriating task—every person he asks about a horse or food refers him to another who is just as unhelpful. Sometimes he ends up back at the first man he asked, only to have him suddenly remember how to procure Guy's original request. The structure of the camp is in shambles; Guy had expected to be questioned again and again about his motives; instead he has a hard enough time catching soldiers awake.

He is loitering in front of a blacksmith's tent when he hears the raised voice of Robin's servant approaching around the corner. Guy steps back, out of sight.

"It is Gisborne's doing, I know it," the man frets. "We should do something."

"We do not know what happened, Much," the Saracen woman says.

"It does not take a scholar to figure it out. He was bleeding and unconscious. He is still unconscious!"

"We have been over this. He _was_ unconscious; now he is sleeping. It will be fine. Please be quiet now, unless you spot something clean enough to use as a needle."

As Guy listens to the sound of the manservant's whinging fade away, he marvels at the eternal irony of being glad that Hood is not dead. It would have made things difficult, personally and politically. And yet his immediate relief is soon replaced by the worry that he has left Marian too long. It is already noon. He heads back toward his tent and takes the last few strides too quickly, pushing back the flap with one sweeping gesture only to come face to face with Marian's bare back.

"Guy!" she scolds over her shoulder as she scrambles to pull her top over her head. He turns away out of habit, but then thinks better of it. This is his tent, after all, and he has seen more of her skin than that.

He watches as she smoothes the fabric down far longer than necessary, before consenting to face him. He had asked William to go to Acre and find the same sort of garment that they had bought for her when they first arrived, the kind that had been destroyed when she was tending to his wounds. He was successful; the one she wears now is a dark mulberry. It complements the flush staining her cheeks, and he is once again taken aback by how radiant she looks even in the worst of situations.

"I see that William was here," he says as casually as he can manage, gesturing to the stack of clothing and the tray of uneaten food that is arranged to one side. "Good."

"He was." Her eyes flicker to meet his, then dance away. He has not seen her fidget this much since the first time he visited her and Edward at Knighton. Back then he thought that it was maidenly modesty; now he knows that it is nerves.

"You should eat," he tells her, starting to idly gather the few items of clothing he will be taking with him. He hears the rustle of bed linens as she sits, but no sounds that resemble a clinking glass or tearing bread. She is perched on the edge, hands folded in her lap as she ignores the array before her. Guy had asked William to get whatever he could find, the more expensive the better, but she hasn't touched any of it, not a fig or piece of flatbread or whatever white substance is in the small wooden bowl.

"You do not like it," he says.

"Like what?" she asks before following his gaze to the untouched meal before her. "Oh," she says dumbly. "No, it is . . . very considerate of you." She picks up a pale wafer of flatbread but does not attempt to eat it. "Guy," she starts, staring at her hands even as she charges ahead boldly. "Last night was a—,"

"Last night was a mistake," he says quickly before she can elaborate; he has, after all, heard these lines before.

She looks surprised. "It was?" she asks, blinking, before correcting herself. "No. Yes, it was."

"There could be a child," he says bluntly, and tries to ignore the twinge of hurt that passes through him when she blanches. "Circumstances being what they are, it was . . . unwise."

She begins to break the bread into tiny pieces. "Are you sure the King will not let us marry?" she asks between snaps.

He would be happier to hear her ask that if she did not look as though someone had requested she eat her own arm. "He will not," he says tersely.

"But surely if we can explain the situation. . ."

"He will not, Marian," he barks, cutting her off. What a rosy picture of Richard she must hold in her head—and how similar it is to Hood's, he thinks darkly. A part of him longs to tear down her lofty ideals in the same way that he had done the outlaw's, but he is too afraid that by destroying the cause, he will destroy the guilt that binds her to him. His anger at himself turns outward. "Are you going to eat the bread or break it into pieces like a madwoman?"

Her head whips up, and he is surprised to find how relieved he is to see the indignation back in her eyes. Her resigned demureness was beginning to scare him. She snaps it into three more parts before slowly bringing a piece up to chew.

He takes a seat by her on the bed, causing her to immediately lifts the tray and set it between them. "You should eat as well," she says coolly, before tearing a wounded grape from a full bunch and popping it in her mouth. Afterwards, she licks the juice from her index finger. It is not rude in any way, or even suggestive, but Guy's mind suddenly flashes to memory of her lips against his neck when he was moving inside her. He shifts uncomfortably. It is difficult to align the woman who welcomed him passionately last night with the one who sits here now as though she is teaching a lesson on posture. More proof that he does not have any inkling what is going on inside her head.

To distract himself, he reaches for a grape; his knuckles brush her hand when she reaches for it at the same time, and they both draw back.

"You can have it," he says.

"No. It is yours."

"I really don't mind."

"There are twenty there. I will have another."

"Eat the grape, Marian."

"I will eat what I like, _Guy._" To prove her point she reaches beyond the fruit, picks up the bowl of mystery porridge, dips a finger in it and tastes it. Her nose wrinkles. "What is this?"

"I don't know. Holy Land food was never my favorite," he says, realizing too late that he has just offered up a sore spot to be poked. She opens her mouth, and he prepares himself for attack.

"The things you told me last night, are they true?"

It is not the question he expected. "I really do not know when my birthday is."

"No, not about that. About . . . about your family."

Guy stands up. He had said a lot of things in the heat of the moment that he would have rather not shared. "That is not something I lie about," he says shortly.

"Then I did not realize the true weight of what I asked you to do. I am sorry for that."

An apology is the last thing he expected, and he can only stare at her dumbly as she tucks a wing of hair behind her ear. He struggles to find the proper response.

Before he can speak, however, she begins to speak in a rush. "But it does not excuse the wanton violence that I witnessed you commit against people who had no means of defending themselves."

If he had no idea what to say before, he has even less now. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"If we are to be married, you should know how I feel about things. And I feel that the people of Nottingham were treated abominably under Vasey's rule. He was a monster. And you followed him blindly." She pins him with her gaze, chin set, jaw stubborn. In the brief second before his pride bucks against being chastised, he wonders what she is so desperate to prove.

"Do not lecture me on morals," he says tightly. "You who manipulate everyone in your path for your own ends."

"The two have nothing to do with one another! And I do not manipulate _everyone,_" she mutters, reaching for another piece of flatbread to resume her crazy-person snapping.

"Just me, then," he says, and then waits for a response that never comes. He had been feeling guilty about not telling her of Jerusalem earlier, but that is no longer the case. He turns to resume gathering his things. "Right, well, you will have plenty of time to dig up your grievances against me when I am gone. Perhaps you can make a list."

"Gone?"

"I am leaving for Jerusalem today."

The silence behind him is thunderous, but he refuses to give in to the desire to search out her reaction. "Why?" she finally asks from behind him, her voice tight.

"Richard has ordered me there. And when I return he has promised me that we can be married—he has promised me land. Things will be better," he says, turning around to face her dark expression. "For us."

She drops her eyes, but not before he sees how tight her mouth is. "And what are you to do in Jerusalem?"

The reminder of his own ignorance chafes. "I do not know. Hopefully it will be quick. I will return as soon as possible, I promise. In case you are—,"

She cuts him off. "You mean you did not ask?"

"I asked. He did not tell me."

"How is it that you are not curious?" she asks in disbelief before her eyes narrow. "You are lying to me."

"What?"

"You _promised,_" she insists, high color creeping back into her cheeks. "And yet after . . . after everything that has passed between us, you would still leave me in the dark." Abruptly, she stands to leave. "Do not let me keep you. Safe wishes for your journey."

Caught unawares, he barely has time to catch her arm before she is passed him. "I am not lying!" he yells, which only earns him a hissed request not to touch her. He hangs on, tries something softer. "Marian, why do you always think the worst of me?"

"Because I have seen the worst of you. Let me go."

He is about to release her with a veiled reminder that she is his wife in everything but name, but then he sees how her eyes are glistening; she is close to tears. "I am not lying," he repeats softly when the shock has passed. "I will show you everything I have. Will you stay?"

Her eyes widen, and she darts a longing glance toward the outside. "Please," he says uncomfortably, and is relieved when she finally nods.

He walks over to his bag, pulls out the parchment that Richard gave him. "This is all I know," he tells her before she rips it out of his hands as though it were the most precious gift that he had ever given her.

"They are only directions," she says, giving him a confused glance.

"I am to meet a man named Baldrick there when I reach the city. He will tell me more."

"What do you think it is?"

_Nothing you will approve of_, he thinks darkly. Outwardly, however, he only shrugs.

"I do not understand. Why does he not send--," she starts before cutting herself off. He watches as she calmly folds the paper and hands it back to him, all the while evading his gaze.

"You meant to ask why does he not send Hood. Say it if you are going to say it."

She only presses her lips together.

The jealousy that he has been holding at bay with the memory of last night overflows its cage. "I have swallowed more of your betrayals than I can count, Marian. I will not suffer another," he warns.

He expects her to rage at that, but instead she only looks at him sideways. "Very well, then," she says. "Take me with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you," she repeats, stepping forward and smiling widely enough that her dimples are out in full force. "I can help."

"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "It is not safe. I have no idea what is waiting for me."

"Why is it ridiculous? I can think. I can fight. You will need someone."

She moves closer, puts a tentative hand on his arm. He feels the warmth through his sleeve, feels his body respond. No, last night did not solve anything.

"Please, Guy." She looks up at him through her lashes, and for a second he feels his resolve weaken. Truthfully, she is more competent than all of Nottingham's guards combined. He has never seen someone so adept at evading questions, so quick on their feet when caught in a lie; he would almost admire it if he were not the rock she used to sharpen her skills. And he does not want to leave her here alone, leave her close to him; his mind goes dark at the thought of it.

But then he spots the calculating gleam in her eye, the way she logs each and every reaction. He will not be bought with pats to the shoulder.

Guy leans over so that he is on level with her ear. "If you are going to seduce me, do it properly," he says, and doesn't know whether to feel triumphant or disappointed when she jerks back, startled. For a few moments they regard each other warily. "You are staying here," he says with finality. "Away from Hood."

"Despite what you might think, I am not a whore. I believe I have proven myself in that respect at least," she says primly. "I will return to my tent. Let me know when you are leaving—I should say goodbye."

He feels a flood of shame, remorse. The words are polite, but there is a coldness that was not there before as she brushes past him on her way out. He prefers her anger to icy detachment.

"I am sorry, Marian. For everything . . . for all of the scars." He tries to swallow, finds that he can't. "You are the last thing that I have ever wanted to hurt," he finishes. But when he turns to see if she understands what he is trying to say, she is already gone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: **_Fallout _(12/?)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Guy/Marian  
**Word Count:** 5500  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

**A/N: **First off, thank you to everyone who has left such lovely comments. I am a little bit addicted to them. This chapter has taken me much longer than expected, and I am sorry about that. (Blame Robin—I get frustrated with having to write him and then I stop!) I think I've pushed through the middle-chapter heebie-jeebies, though, and am back on target.

* * *

The second Marian rounds the last corner, William runs to greet her, worry contorting his usually smooth brow. When he says her name, it comes out sounding more like "Larian" than two distinct words.

"You have had visitors," he whispers frantically, forgetting himself enough to take her elbow and usher her along. "They arrived three seconds after I returned from the morning errands. I told them that you were indisposed, but I do not think that they believed me."

Her heart lurches; she does not want to see Robin. She has not yet decided if she wants to kick him or punch him or cry. "Visitors?"

"Yes. A woman—a _Saracen _woman—and a very agitated man wearing a rag on his head."

She relaxes. "No one else?"

William appears dumbfounded by her lack of agitation. "Are they not enough?" he asks, his voice lilting into panic. "Sir Guy gave very specific orders that I was to make people believe that you were inside your tent and not be disturbed."

Marian smothers a flare of annoyance; she really wishes that Guy would stop terrorizing guards. "It will be fine, William. You should not let him bully you," she chides before brushing aside the flap of her tent and stepping inside.

He follows her. "Should I see if they can be found?"

"No," she snaps, and then feels a tug of shame when William's guileless eyes widen in alarm. "If it is important," she tries with more finesse, "they will come again."

William says nothing, just nods and leaves her to her bad temper. As soon as the flap falls behind him, Marian reaches into her bodice and pulls out the ring that once symbolized hope for a future with Robin but now only reminds her of his betrayal. It had winked at her from the tangled blanket at the foot of the bed this morning as she dressed, dark and glinting like a wide emerald eye. Now she wishes she had left it alone to be smashed and buried underfoot instead of toting it along with her like some sort of besotted fool.

Worry for Robin has been hounding her ever since the light of day exposed the marks of recent violence on Guy's skin: a faint dusting of bruises at his neck and left eye, a slight puffiness to his bottom lip. She had tried to ignore it, but her mindhas been repeating _Robin _like a favorite religion.

She will not run off and check on him now, Marian tells herself, not when he has so clearly drawn his line in the sand. She will _not. _

Thankfully, there are larger concerns to occupy her time—mainly whether or not she will be inviting herself along to Jerusalem. Going to the remaining bags, she digs through them for any sign of quill and ink with which she can record the directions that are quickly fading from her mind. As she pulls out item after item, she tries to ignore the tiny twinges of guilt that chastise her for trodding on his small peace offering, the one that had surprised her greatly. She tells them to be quiet; surely she should have the directions on hand just in case.

When the last bag fails to cough up anything resembling a writing instrument, Marian sighs and pokes her head out of the tent to pester William.

"Is there any chance that you would be able to find me a quill and some ink?" Marian asks, doing her best to charm. "Or anything that I can write with, really."

He eyes her warily. "I am not supposed to leave."

"Just this once."

"You promise that you will stay here?"

_He truly is a horrible guard_, she thinks fondly and agrees. To reassure him, she brings a hand to hand to her mouth to fake exhaustion. "I am quite tired actually," she yawns. He blushes, and it takes a few seconds for Marian to realize what he must be thinking. He turns and leaves without any further inquiry, but the reminder has been delivered, the damage done. Her fragile mantle of denial has been torn to pieces.

Back in the tent, she paces. Marian used to pride herself on her intelligence. At meetings of local noblemen, when they all sat in a circle like overdressed mushrooms, she would stand behind her father and entertain herself by refuting their arguments and wheezing speeches. It was a struggle to keep from snorting when one of them said something particularly short-sighted or arrogant, although a sharp look from her father would normally keep her in check. Even so, sometimes she would be forced to turn her head and share a smile with the stone walls. Pride was sinful, but she could not stop the secret elation that came from the thought that, had she been born a man, she would have run circles around them. Publicly, that is—she was already running circles around them privately as the Nightwatchman.

But now that comforting superiority is slipping away, disappearing beneath a cloud of doubt so thick that she can no longer see two steps ahead of her. It wasn't until she awoke this morning, embarrassed and sore in strange places, that she realized just how reckless she has been, and not just last night—although that was surely a symptom of whatever brain fever has been eating away at her good sense for the past few months. So many things that once seemed like the right decision have gone sour. She had abandoned her father's body to run off in the forest with a known outlaw, tossing aside all of her progress at finding a foothold in the castle. Not to mention trying to kill the Sheriff—with a broadsword!

Marian falls back onto her pallet with a sigh of resignation. As she stares at the gently undulating canvas above her, she takes stock. She used to be so cautious, used to play the game so well. And yet now . . .

_You have to think about it sometime, Marian, _an inner voice scolds. She rolls over in the hopes that it will go away, but it only grows louder. She knows that she should feel as though she has committed some sin, but blasphemous as it is, she can't help but feel that God has larger concerns than her chastity or lack thereof. A part of her is even glad that it is over and done with, that the mysterious curtain has finally been lifted. She was not entirely ignorant of what would happen—farm animals rarely cared if they had an audience and she had attended enough wedding feasts to hear a lifetime's worth of drunken jesting about the bridal chamber. But now she knows what is expected of her, and she finds that reassuring. And while it was not her original plan, it had accomplished what she had set out to do, had made it more impossible to turn back. She will never again let anyone accuse her of bringing a hog to a feast and not eating it. If anything, she can boast that she ate the table and chairs along with it.

No, the problem is not that it happened. _The problem_ is that it hadn't been nearly so pragmatic a decision, as she came to realize this morning when she was pretending to be asleep and he was hovering over her. Despite the fact that she cannot pinpoint how she feels about the act—or even the man she was doing the act with—there was a split second where, if he had kissed her or slid his hand up her leg the way he did last night, she would have succumbed all over again.

And how _unwise _that would have been, she thinks darkly, stealing his word and trying to understand her own bitterness that he had used it, for it had been unwise. The last thing she needs is to be with child. The last thing she _wants _to be is with child, anyone's child; she knows what can happen.

Sitting up, she glares down at her abdomen. _No, _she tells it, and then feels foolish. Again.

Marian is staring so intently at her stomach that at first she does not register the scuffle of footsteps outside her tent or whisk of a curtain being pulled back. That is why when she looks up to find Robin gazing at her with what can only be called a mixture of disbelief and relief, she does not cry in relief or throw anything at him. All she can do is blurt out his name in surprise.

"Marian," he says, rushing over and cupping her face with the hands that have grown even rougher since he made the forest his home. "You are safe. I thought I had . . . ," he starts but then pulls her into a desperate embrace. Too stunned to react, she puts up no resistance.

At first she is lost in the familiarity of it—the scrape of his beard against her skin, the reassurance that comes from laying her head on his shoulder. "I am sorry," he says softly, and dips down to kiss her cheek as though it were solid ground after a year at sea. But then something spiny and brittle chafes her forehead, breaking whatever daze had been keeping her immobile. She pushes at his shoulders until he is forced to let go.

She examines the jaggedly-sewn gash that curves away from the corner of his left eye like a leering smile. Hands on his jaw, she turns his face for a better look before she can stop herself.

"Like it?" he asks, smiling. "It's good for the outlaw image, I think. I only wish I had it when I was threatening nobles in the forest." She does not need to ask what happened, so she says nothing. His expression wavers, and a note of real concern creeps into his voice. "Is it that bad?"

"Why are you here, Robin?"

"Djaq and Much dropped by earlier to ask questions about how I came to be left outside the camp unconscious and bleeding. Your guard was acting suspiciously. They were worried."

"Unconscious and bleeding?" she murmurs.

"Djaq tells me I might be concussed. Or I was concussed. I don't remember," he says, all smiles again as he stands before her with his arms crossed, sun-kissed and slender. His hair is shaggy, swooping over his brow, and he holds himself like the old Robin, relaxed and carefree and looking as though he does not have a worry in the world. This breezy confidence used to be a comfort in the chaos. Now, when everything she has ever known is up in the air, it is infuriating.

"Serves you right," she says, cold once again. She turns away to find the ring and then holds it toward him. Her forearm is so rigid that she wonders if her arm will snap at the elbow. "This is yours. Keep it this time."

He stares down at it for several seconds, and then looks up, green eyes blazing. "If he hurt you, Marian, I will kill him before the day is out."

She wants to say that nothing has ever hurt as badly as this betrayal, but the pain of it feels so large in her chest that she doubts it will ever be small enough to speak. After thrusting it into his hands, she points toward the door. "Leave."

His eyes widen. "Marian--,"

"Leave. Now." When he makes no move to obey, she can no longer hold her tongue. "Did you honestly think that I would be happy to see you? After you thrust me in the middle of your vendetta with no warning, with no thought at all for my safety?"

"It was not like that," he says softly. "I did not mean for him to find the ring. How could you think I would give you away willingly?"

His voice is thick with sincerity. He moves forward to touch her cheek, but she bats his hand away. "You have not been yourself these past few days," she says, surprised to find that a part of her wants to keep her anger, build it stone by stone like an impenetrable wall.

She expects him to deflect with a joke or hint of gentle teasing. Instead he just nods gravely. "I know."

"You know?" she repeats, unbalanced. If Robin stops acting crazed, she does not know how she will cope.

"I should not have confronted him on my own."

"You should not have confronted him at all!" she yells, halfway relieved to find that he is still thinking in red. "The King has pardoned Guy. You trust him in all other matters, why do you not trust him in this?"

"It is different."

"How?" she cries, not expecting any sort of answer. Her prediction proves true—Robin just stares moodily at the ground, lost in his thoughts. She moves to sit on the end of her bed. "Just let it go, Robin. Whatever it is."

"Marian, it is not _right._"

"It is not _right_ to carry out your own private revenge mission; you would be livid if any of your own men behaved in such a way," she says, and at the same time realizes just how true it is. He looks away guiltily, and this glimmer of sense calms her in a way his reassurances of protection could not. "The King is alive, Robin. Vasey is dead. It is what we wanted. The fact that it did not happen _how _we wanted is inconsequential."

"Is it?"

"Yes!"

He turns to study her, brow furrowed. "You act as though I should be happy that the woman I love is swearing to marry my enemy. Again!"

"I do not expect you to be happy. Just accepting of it. As I was when you left for the Crusades."

"This again?" he shouts. "How long am I to be punished for something that happened six years ago? I have admitted that it was a mistake."

"I did not intend it as a recrimination," she says, which only wins her a skeptical glance. "Once I did," she admits, "but now I do not." Marian stares at her fingers. She's been clutching the dark red fabric of her tunic so hard that it has wrinkled. As she concentrates on smoothing it back down, she talks to her lap. "This is not what I wanted. You know that."

His eyes narrow. "You speak of it in the past. What do you want now?" he asks, and Marian wonders how long it will be before every word stops being a trap. What does she want? It's a simple question, really, but she does not even have the fragments of an answer.

"I want to keep my word," she says, looking up to meet his gaze, and her voice does not waver. It is the only thing she knows to be true these days, the only conviction left that still beats fast and pure and strong. "I am happy that we have succeeded, Robin. But I am not proud of everything I did to make it happen."

Suddenly, he crouches before her. "And that is noble, Marian." He takes her hands. "But marriage is forever—it is a point that you will have to prove again and again. Have you thought about this?"

The gall of Robin—Robin!—asking if she has sufficiently thought things through causes her to tear her hands away. "I have thought about nothing else for four days."

"He talks about you as though you were a bed-warmer, a prize. It is all you are to him. You are more than that."

She looks away. His words make her recall the way Guy snapped at her this morning, his surprising aloofness. It seems silly now, but she had expected avowals of love, had feigned sleep for as long as possible to avoid them. When he first started to court her, they had only annoyed her, but later on, after she had come to believe that his feelings were genuine, they only caused shame and the unbearable guilt of not having anything to give in return.

But he had not said anything other than that it was a mistake, had not even apologized in the light of day for thinking her unchaste. She has been telling herself all morning that it doesn't matter, but perhaps Robin is right. Even still, she will not admit it.

"If one offers themselves as a prize," she says with a resigned air, "one cannot be angry at being considered such."

Robin shakes his head, lets out a frustrated huff, and backs away. "Is there nothing I can say that will talk you out of this?"

She lets her silence stand as her answer.

"You will be a widow within the year," he says, and says it casually, as though he is informing her of the weather.

"If you kill him I will hate you forever," she says fiercely, and her vehemence surprises them both. It's on the tip of her tongue to say that it works the other way, too—if Guy killed Robin, she would hate him forever—but Robin is already talking.

"I don't have to kill him," he says, with spite now. "He will hang himself."

"What does that mean?"

Robin shrugs. "There are already signs."

"Guy will be loyal to the King now, in act if not in thought. And that is all that matters in politics," she says with a dose of bitterness.

"You know him so well do you?"

"I know him better than you," she insists.

"Oh, really?"

"I know that he will not sabotage his only path to power and position. Not now that he has…," she begins, and then trails off. She was about to say _Not now that he has me_, but it sounds conceited and makes the cycle of doubt start all over again. "He is already on a mission for Richard," she says to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"Ah yes. Jerusalem. I do not trust that. Richard would have sent for me."

His thoughts echo hers so completely, that all she can do is insist that she has seen the King's seal on it.

"Seen his seal on what?" Robin asks, suddenly alert and curious instead of sullen and resentful.

She has walked into a trap. "I am not saying anything else."

He closes the space between them, stopping just in front of her. "Where is he going, Marian?"

She stares at the dogtag around his neck, not wanting to meet his eyes. "I am done giving you information. It only leads to . . . complications."

"Tell me what you know."

"Did you come here concerned about my welfare or Guy's plans?" she snaps, tired of being bullied.

A shout from outside interrupts their conversation before Robin can answer. William's voice is muffled by the wind and canvas, but the name he says is clear.

"Sir Guy," she hears him repeat in a rush. "I was just finding something for Lady Marian to write with."

"Write with? What does she need to write?" Guy says, his voice coated in suspicion. William begins to babble, his nervousness plain even from here.

Marian turns to Robin, grabs his shoulder, and pushes him toward the cut at the back of her tent. "Get out," she hisses.

"Your face is white. Marian, if he scares you..."

"Robin, just go," she pleads, but he only sets his jaw stubbornly. "You have made things more difficult for me with last night. I am begging you to make them easier now." She lets her voice drop, go intimate. When she asks again, it is to the Robin who she grew up with, not the Robin she has seen these last few days. "Please."

There is a frightful moment where he does not move, just studies her face with an expression of intense concentration.

Suddenly, he smiles. "You have told me you would marry him before, but it did not happen," he whispers. "I will not give up this time." Before she can protest that it is different, he leans forward, wraps his hand around the back of her neck, and kisses her, hard, before disappearing through the slit in the tent.

Her composure blown to pieces, Marian allows herself a few moments to regain her defenses, and then walks to meet Guy before he has a chance to enter the tent and suck up all the space like he is wont to do. By the time she is pushing back her curtain, however, he is already halfway inside. She knocks into his chest, covered once again in thick black leather. When she looks up, he is staring down at her with a slight frown. A gentle warmth radiates off of him, most likely from being in the sun. For one panicked second, she wonders if he can see Robin's kiss on her.

That thought makes her back away, which lets him walk the rest of the way inside. In his hands are a quill, some parchment, and a small clay pot that must be ink. She notices that he is back to wearing his gloves, a fact which she finds oddly comforting. She had only peeked once this morning as he was dressing, and it was enough to rattle her, make her realize that she was completely out of her depth. By the time he had returned from his morning errands devoid of any of his usual armor, she had still not recovered any perspective. His words from the night before, his appearance then, his demeanor . . . they had not fit with the image she held of him in her head. Unbidden, the memory of a long-ago conversation had taken up residence in her head and would not go, where she had told him that everything was back in its box and would never be taken out again. But now everything is out of its box and she can't even find the pieces to put back in.

Now he holds the writing items toward her, arching an eyebrow. "At your request," he says curtly. When she makes no move to claim them, just continues to haunt her spot in the corner, he sets them on the end of her bed and crosses his arms. "Mind telling me what they are for?"

"If I am to stay here and be useless, I will need occupation."

He tilts his head, his gaze cool and exacting. "I did not know that you kept a diary."

"Are you leaving?" she asks, trying to divert this line of questioning.

"Don't lie to me," he snaps, but her attention is captured by a tiny scratching sound coming from outside the tent. Feet shifting in sand. Robin. He is _spying _on her.

"I feel like walking," she says suddenly, moving forward and grabbing Guy's hand. She pulls him outside, shushing him when he protests. They pass a surprised William on their way to the main road. When they stop, curious soldiers mill past on either direction.

"Marian," Guy says impatiently, "I do not want to say goodbye to you in the middle of the road."

"It is safe here."

"What?" he asks over the din of men and horses.

"I _said_, it is safe—"

"This is ridiculous," he cuts her off, pulling her to a spot between two tents. It is barely wide enough to accept his shoulders, but it does muffle the cacophony of an early-morning camp. "What are you about?"

He is standing too close; she can see the darker ring of blue in his eyes . . . and the darker purple patches that swim in the bruise by his nose. "Nothing," she says, backing away slightly. "I needed fresh air."

"Well, now it smells like horses and animal skin instead of tent." He peers over her head. "Are we being followed?"

"No!" she shouts. At least she hopes not. Flustered, she looks up to see the bright afternoon sun overhead. "It is getting late. If you are going today, you will need to leave soon."

"I have plenty of time to make Haifa by nightfall. From there it is a two days' ride to Jerusalem if I follow the coast." His eyes narrow. "Are you so eager to be rid of me?"

"If you were not so shortsighted," she snaps, "I would be going with you."

He sighs. "I could not take you with me even if I wanted to."

"Why not?"

For a second he looks uncertain, as though he has something to tell her but does not know if he should. She can imagine that it is the usual excuses about her sex and strength.

"Well then," she says when he still does not speak. "Consider yourself farewelled."

"Marian—"

"I will see you when you return," she says. _Or when I follow you to Jerusalem_, she thinks, now confident in her decision. When he only stands their dumbly, she leans forward to give him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He turns his head at the last second and their lips touch.

It only takes a second for her to realize that something has changed. It feels natural, no longer rare and strange. The thought of what comes after . . . that still feels strange. But this no longer makes her chest constrict in panic when she thinks of what it means. And that is frightening. She backs away, offering him a tight smile before she turns to leave.

"How long were you planning on waiting before you followed me?" he asks from behind her.

She freezes, reaching for the first thing that springs to her mind as is her usual habit. Unfortunately, there is nothing there.

"I imagine the ink was to write down the directions," he continues. "And I can't think of who you would be sending a message to. Hood is here, after all." The edge to his voice pricks her skin.

She whirls around, but finds that she has no words to match the angry gesture.

"I was foolish to show them to you," he mutters, almost to himself, and then pins her with his gaze. "Marian, I went to see Richard after you left this morning, to ask him if you might be allowed to leave."

"You were going to take me with you?" The thought makes her chest flutter unexpectedly.

"No," he says, not even trying to not be blunt, and the flutter meets a swift and timely demise.

"Then I don't understand," she says stiffly.

"I thought you might return to England and stay at the convent until I can get back." His lips give a self-deprecating quirk. "For real this time."

"The convent!"

Guy's gaze is cool. "You have wanted to go in the past."

Anger floods her entire body; she can feel it in her fingers. "You cannot just ship me off whenever it is convenient. Without even asking my opinion!"

"It would have been for your own safety."

"It would have been for your own ego! If you want me to stay away from Robin," she says, surprising even herself with her daring, "why not just put me in a pit and cover it with bulrushes? It is less expensive."

"Tempting," he snaps, but then brings his fingers up to the bridge of his nose. She is beginning to realize that it is his version of a calming gesture. "It does not matter anyway. The King wants you here."

"What does it matter to him where I am?" she asks, but he only looks away. "What is it, Guy?"

"Marian, my situation here is tenuous," he says while studying his boots and the ground between them with an air of frustration. "There is a reason Richard wanted me to witness the executions yesterday. The only way that I will get out of this—that _we_ will get out of this—is if I do exactly as he says. And he wants you to stay here."

"I still don't understand."

"I don't need you to understand," he says, looking at her once again, "I need you to promise me that you will stay."

"But what—,"

"Marian," he repeats. "Please. Stay here. I will finish this and then we can go back to England." He drops his gaze again. "The King has intimated that I could have Nottingham."

"And you think you deserve Nottingham?" she says without thinking. His eyes widen; that has angered him in a way that her previous words have not. "Guy, I'm sorry, I did not mean...,"

"Whether I deserve it or not," he says tightly, "I will have it. And you _will be_ the lady of it."

She wishes that he would not make it sound like a threat. It only heightens her own fear of the future. But all she does is say, softly, "I know that."

He frowns. "And I am not like Vasey. I do not care what you do with peasants. Clothe them, feed them, care for them . . . whatever you want."

The way he speaks of them, as though they were dolls that he was allowing her to play with . . .

"I cannot do that if they are maimed or dead," she retorts, and the curses herself. Sometimes she would like to cut out her temper like a bad tumor.

His looks at her sharply. "You act as though I killed for sport."

"It does not matter the motivation. The fact that it was done under orders does not make it right."

"I am sure this ground is soaked in the blood of men Hood has killed," he snaps. "Under orders."

"That is different."

"How?"

"There is a difference between killing men at war and killing people who are trying to live a peaceable life with their families."

He just glares at her. "I have to go," he says, finally, and moves toward her. "But first I will have your word that you will wait here for my return. I hope to be back within the month. Before, if possible."

Marian feels trapped. She hates this camp; the idea of escaping it was quickly becoming her only bright spot in a world that was turning grey faster than she could think. There is also Robin—she does not want to be around him if he is determined to win her back. She does not want more reason to waver, does not want to have to explain herself to him again and again. The more she repeats her reasons, the commoner they become, the easier to break. But Guy must know that. He would not be asking her to stay if there was not good cause. Still, she does not want to make a promise only to break it yet again.

"You once said that you did not want me to die. By staying here, you are ensuring that."

"Is it really that serious?" she asks in disbelief.

He swallows, and she sees what the admission of his own humbled position is costing him. "It is not good," he says after a few more seconds of tense silence. "Marian, I am asking you. As a favor."

"Alright," she says, and feels her resolution grow stronger.

"Really?"

He does not need to seem so surprised. "I said 'alright.'"

His eyes slide back and forth over her face. "I do not know how to believe you," he says, his voice thick with an emotion that she can't quite quantify.

She does not expect the sting that accompanies those words. "I promise."

"The last time you promised me something, I found you tied to a chair because you attempted to run a sword through the Sheriff."

She looks away. "That was reckless of me. I realize that now." She checks to see if his doubtful expression has altered, only to find his brow still creased with concern and suspicion. "Guy, I give you my word." When he does not respond, she moves closer, tentatively takes his hand. The leather of the glove is warm. She brings her other hand up to his cheek as he watches her warily. For a second she considers kissing him—wants to kiss him, actually—but she has done it so many times in manipulation that she worries it would seem false. She lets go of his hand, brings her fingers back down.

"Be safe. I will be here when you return," she says simply, and then turns and walks away before anything can change her mind.

* * *

Next time, on "Fallout"

Guy and Allan come to an understanding.

Guy leaves for Jerusalem—for realsies this time.

We meet Baldrick, who is not nearly as stupid as his name might lead you to believe.

And we actually move forward a month! (I know! I'm a little nervous myself!)


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: **_Fallout _(13/?)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Guy, Allan (Guy/Marian in spirit)  
**Word Count:** 5200  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

A/N: As I've mentioned before, I am working with a very, very bare sketch of history here. If I truly set out to research, I'd decide I needed a PhD in Medieval Studies an Guy and Marian would never ever have sex or babies. So bear with me here, and be warned that what follows is complete and total crack. Please note that I do not personally endorse any of the characters' 12th-century mindsets about Jews, and my apologies to Richard the Lionhearted. And nuns.

* * *

As Guy watches Marian go, her dark hair swinging, he tries to quell the part of him that still wants to believe her. It should be torn to bits by now; instead it resurrects itself with every kind word or glance. If he is ever going to gain any sort of foothold with her, this foolish hope must die a very painful death. _Lies, _he tells himself, _she lies_, and then he mutters it aloud for good measure.

The good news is that he is finally starting to understand how to handle her: think of what he would like for her to do and prepare for the opposite. Marian had yelled that he wanted to put her in a pit, but that is not true. She could escape a pit. Easily. Guy would like to put her in a trunk with a very heavy lid and air-holes that are too small to wiggle out of.

Stepping out from the narrow makeshift alley between the tents, he heads for his horse, joining the clutch of men who travel from tent to tent on daily business. He has no option but to trust her now, now that Richard has emphatically shown that she is meant to stay here as collateral. The King had not even considered his proposal to send her to Ripley Convent, just waved it off with a cold eye and wished him a good journey. Even so, Guy balks at leaving her here without any sort of supervision. Her guard is useless, and he has no one here that he can trust. His only recourse is to hope that he can be back from Jerusalem as quickly as possible. So why does he continue to linger and hope that a solution to the predicament will walk up and wave hello?

A group of thirty men is huddled in front of the path he needs to take to the perimeter, and Guy is forced to slow. "Excuse me," he mutters as he pushes through them, leaving a passel of curses and offended grunts in his wake. When he is halfway, a familiar voice rings out.

"Alright, gents. Who's next? You know what they say about luck being like lightning—it has to strike sooner or later."

Guy peers through the forest of grimy necks and white-clad shoulders to where Allan continues to chatter. He can't help but note that his former man is still wearing the black clothing he adopted as soon as he entered Guy's employ. Now he sits behind a small bench with three dented tin cups arranged face-down in front of him like tiny hats. Allan is back to his tavern games.

"No one? No one is brave enough to try?" Allan clucks like an admonishing mother, albeit one who has not shaved in several days, and then points at a swarthy man who is clearly disgruntled about losing his money. "That crazy scowling man almost had it. But he changed his mind at the last second. Always go with your first instinct. That's the gambling lesson for today." He winks. "You can pay me for it with your winnings."

Scanning the half-circle of onlookers for a volunteer and finding none, he throws up his hands. "Look, I'll get us started," he says, palming a pebble from the pile at his side and holding it up between his thumb and forefinger like a prized jewel. Once the crowd is suitably assured, he slips it beneath the far cup and begins to shuffle, his hands sure and quick. If Guy did not already know that the game was rigged, he would not know to look for the brief second where Allan's fingers slip in and retrieve the rock. After the cups are once again arranged before him, Allan lifts his arms up and shakes them. It might look like a finishing flourish to an ignorant onlooker, but Guy is certain that the pebble is now safely hidden in the trickster's sleeve.

"I will try," Guy calls out, stepping between the two men in front of him. He keeps his eyes on Allan's arms and gives a mean smile. "I think I know the game."

"Guy," Allan says in shock before his gaze flickers to the circle of men whose purses have been emptied by his tricks. His face retains its showman's expression, but his hands begin to fidget. He drums his fingers on the table and speaks from between his teeth. "Look, Giz, I'm sorry about—,"

"About what?" Guy cuts him off. He waits for Allan to start talking in his familiar circles; the second he does—the second he even tries to defend himself—Guy is determined to expose his trick and let the crowd take its vengeance.

But Allan says nothing. He does not even try to finish his sentence, just sets his jaw like a man on his way to the gallows. All of a sudden, Guy thinks he might have a solution to the Marian problem. He points to the central cup, the one that covers nothing more than air. "That one."

Allan's eyes snap open, and he blinks a few times before realizing that his surprise is suspicious. "Sorry, mate. Better luck next time," he says and lifts the chosen cup to prove Guy's mistake. "Well, I think that's a day." He claps his hands and begins to gather his things hastily, as though he expects his good fortune to run out.

A few men groan, obviously depressed by the thought of having to find new amusement, a few grumble, and one calls out, "Aren't you going to take his money?" Allan looks at Guy, who wordlessly pulls a coin out of the purse at his waist and flips it to him. After nodding at the man who reminded him, Allan heads back toward his camp.

Guy yells his name, but when Allan doesn't turn around, he is forced to follow. "I have something to discuss with you," he says, grabbing his arm.

Allan shakes his arm off and turns to regard him warily. "If this is about Marian and Robin again. . ."

"I know everything about that. And so," Guy says darkly, "did you. Tell me, how did you get the Mother Superior's seal?"

"Look, just hit me and get it over with. Yeah, yeah, I knew where Marian was. Yeah, yeah, I didn't tell you, just hit me."

Guy would like to hit him, actually, but that might make Allan think that they are even. He wants him to feel indebted. "I'm not going to hit you."

Allan does not know how to react to that. He squints, rubs at his head. "You know, Marian does what she wants to do," he says, finally defensive, "I had Robin threatenin' me on one side, her poppin' out of corners with knives on the other. . . . I had no choice. I had to protect her."

As usual, the fact that everyone but him knew about her duplicity brings a rush of anger that causes his fists to clench. But if he is going to survive this, he has to swallow some of his wounded pride. "I know. I need you to do it again," Guy says, teeth gritted.

"What?"

Guy looks around, sees the curious glances that nearby soldiers are throwing their way. He jerks his head to the side in a suggestion that Allan follow him to somewhere more private. Allan considers it for a few seconds, but then walks after him warily. Once they are off the main road and surrounded by only a few deserted tents and cast-off weapons, Guy turns to Allan again.

"I have to leave for Jerusalem today on business for Richard."

"Yeah, I heard something about that."

For the first time, it strikes Guy how foolhardy it was to taunt Hood with details of his plans. He had been worried about Marian following him, but now he wonders if he should be more worried of Hood. Or worse, of them following him together. The need for immediate return grows stronger.

"I do not know how long I will be gone," he tells Allan, "and the King has been very adamant that Marian stay here. She knows this, but Marian is. . .," He starts, but struggles for the right word.

"Crazy?" Allan tries.

"No."

"I think my jaw still clicks from where she punched me."

"Headstrong," Guy snaps. "She is headstrong. I need you to check in on her, make sure that she stays here. It is in her best interests. I can pay you."

Allan squints at him. "Nah," he says.

Used to Allan obeying his orders immediately, Guy rears back. He never thought that Allan would refuse. "What?" he says, his fingers suddenly itching to grab at Allan's throat. He has not forgotten the betrayal; it has just been covered by panic and worry.

"I mean, I'll do it," Allan says in a rush. "I'm just not taking money for it anymore. That's what got me into this mess in the first place."

Surprised, Guy can only blink. He does not like the idea of not having any money behind a request—it feels less certain, less binding. "I will pay you."

"I won't take it," Allan says stubbornly.

"I'll pay you to keep her away from Hood."

"That I won't do. I'm not going to be her jailer." He waves his hands in front of him. "Your two's strange relationship stuff is your own business."

Now that he feels ridiculous, Guy can only look away and say nothing.

"Hey, I'll keep my word. Don't worry about that," Allan says and then gives him a clumsy pat on the arm.

"See that you do," he snaps, uncomfortable, and then storms away to find his horse.

* * *

Haifa is a smaller city than Acre—a town really—that teeters on the edge of a bay. As predicted, Guy makes it by nightfall, just as the last rays of sun are slipping behind the small mountain that borders it on the West.

He finds an inn easily, and though the bed is rickety and the stuffing old, the small room he is given overlooks the water, now silver in the moonlight. The thin walls do nothing to muffle the din of supping people beneath him, and the smell of roasting fish wafts beneath the door. Hunger takes him by surprise, surging up sharp and fierce; apart from a few grapes this morning, he has had nothing substantial to eat since . . . well, since killing Vasey.

That thought tosses up more than he wants to deal with at the moment. As he takes a seat at the window, staring out at the skeleton rigging of the ships in the harbor, he realizes that this is the first time he's traveled alone. In the twenty years that he had been with Vasey, first as one of the impoverished apprentices the man's family collected like old coins and then as his right-hand man, there was never a time when he journeyed without his company. It's not that he misses it—the brief interlude where he once admired Vasey ended abruptly after a day in his employ—but the absence is a reminder of how much things have changed in the last four days, changed in ways that Guy cannot even begin to define as good or bad.

No longer wanting to be alone with the prickling doubt that has recently become his most loyal companion, he goes downstairs. The lower tavern is crowded. Its customers are mostly male, but the city has been under Crusader rule for long enough that there are a few women, most of whom seem to be local. Scattered groups of pilgrims gather in the corners, but the most boisterous are the men who will most likely wend their way back to their homes on foot tonight. Guy orders meat and ale, and then buries himself in a dark corner that smells of the sea.

He makes short work of his meal, but not short enough to avoid the notice of a nearby patron. The man is hunched over his plate, staring at him through a hank of grizzled hair.

As soon as he realizes that Guy has noticed him, he leans over and croaks, "Where are you headed?"

Guy curses beneath his breath. He should have just starved upstairs in his room. "It is none of your concern," he barks and pushes away from the table.

"You're not a pilgrim," the man continues. "They travel in groups, like fish. And you're not a Crusader. I can recognize that sort anywhere; they're usually weighted down by jewels and riches they've picked up on the road. But this _is _the way to Jerusalem. I used to travel it myself as a merchant, before we lost it to the Turk." He shrugs. "A few times since. But not often."

"You've been to Jerusalem?" Guy asks. The last time he was in the Holy Land, he had been limited to the outskirts of Acre. The instructions he has been given are terse and spare, and he has begun to worry that he is stumbling his way into a fraught climate with no real sense of direction. He deliberates for a moment, then pulls out the map and points to where he has been instructed to go. "What do you know about this area?"

The man coughs and then leans over the flattened parchment. "That area is Jewish now. Or Jewish once again. Saladin has let them back in the city." He squints up at Guy with a rheumy eye. "Why are you going there?"

Guy doesn't answer, just folds the map again and stashes it away. "It does not matter," he says shortly, not caring if the man thinks him rude, but he just chuckles.

"Fine. I talk too much anyway," he says, and Guy heads for the stairs. "I would enter from the side, though, if I were you. They have a weapons checkpoint by the main entrance, but not there."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Christians tend to avoid it."

* * *

Guy sticks to the coast as long as he is able. He has never spent much time by the water, and is surprised to find that he enjoys the taste of salt on the air and the open feeling that comes from not being able to see the opposing land; when he is finally forced to turn inward at Jaffa, he feels pang of regret that lingers as the landscape grows sparse and scrubby. In the distance, small caravans flicker through the haze of heat. That day lasts forever, and when dark finally comes, he ties his horse to a palm and spends the night sleeping fitfully at its trunk, hand on the hilt of his sword.

The second day is an imitation of the first, only more draining because it has worn out its welcome. He reaches Jerusalem late in the evening, and from afar, the city is lit by a thousand tiny halos of light. The main gate is imposing in the distance, and he can see the bustle of heavily-swathed Turks at its base.

Taking the old man's advice, Guy guides his horse through the side alleys so that he can enter by way of what is apparently a resurrected Jewish Quarter. A few dark faces turn toward him with wary eyes, but no one approaches to ask his business. As he makes his way toward the interior, the language burbling up around him changes, and it puts him on edge. England is rife with rumors of their cannibalistic practices, their pacts with the devil.

It does not help when a man runs out from an open doorway and begins to yell at him, waving his arms and shooing him forcefully. In the gloom, the only thing Guy can see are his teeth snapping from the middle of his beard. He ignores him and rides past, but the man watches him from the middle of the road until he disappears around the corner.

He pulls out his directions, squints down at them. They point him toward an alley so small that he does not know if it should even be called such, and a door so hidden that you could ride past it without even knowing of its existence. Guy dismounts with his pack and, after only a slight hesitation, knocks on the pitted door. Light seeps through a large crack running from its middle to the base.

The door is soon flung open by the man who he saw exiting Richard's tent a few days ago. Baldrick, he presumes. With the firelight behind him, Guy can only make out a thick figure, a long nose and a thin brown mustache. He gestures for Guy to enter.

"My horse," Guy says, and Baldrick snaps his fingers at a pile of rags cluttering up the corner. The pile shifts, transforming into a sharp-featured boy with impossibly thin limbs who edges by Guy and nickers at the horse before leading it out of sight.

"Ahmad will take care of it," Baldrick says as Guy walks in and drops his things on the end of a thick wooden table that is covered in the remains of what looks to be a chicken dinner. "Despite the fact that he looks half-starved," he continues, "I have found him to be quite capable. And he works for scraps." Baldrick points to a high-backed chair. "Sit, sit."

Even though the air outside is hot and muggy, a fire roars in the hearth. A large black dog is stretched out before it, furiously gnawing at a discarded bone. When Guy approaches to take a seat, it raises its dark head and stares at him with golden eyes.

"You are earlier than I expected," Baldrick says from across the table, and Guy tears his attention away from the canine specter. The man is acting like a genial host whose party guests have surprised them.

"I would like to get this over with," Guy says, sitting in a high-backed chair but not leaning back.

Baldrick's face loses its studied affability and becomes solemn. "As would I. You cannot imagine how it feels to see this sacred city overrun with filth of all kinds. And here we are forced to wallow in it and act as though we are grateful for the privilege." He tears a bone from the ravaged meat in front of him and tosses it to the dog, who nudges his old one aside in favor of the new. "Like dogs hungry for table scraps," he finishes bitterly.

Unsure of how to respond, Guy can only hold his tongue and listen to the crackle of the fire and the crunch of cartilage. When Baldrick proves to be no more forthcoming, he is forced to venture forward. "What exactly are we here to do? King Richard said that you would inform me of more when I arrived."

"I am sorry," Baldrick says, immediately contrite. "I had forgotten that you had not yet been brought to the plan." He leans forward into the full light, and his eyes glitter. "We are going to renew faith in the Crusade. Prove to those that would their backs on our divine mission that Richard is needed here."

Before Guy has a chance to cut through this zealotry and ask the only questions that truly matter to him—_how _and _how soon_—the door creaks open and Ahmad wanders back in.

"Out," Baldrick snaps, whirling toward him. When Ahmad just stands there, too stunned to move, Baldrick picks up a glass and hurls it toward him. It hits the boy's chest with a dull thud and then splashes liquid all over his shirtfront. Guy watches as he skitters out the door. Like this whole cursed trip, it kicks up uncomfortable memories.

"Was that necessary?" he asks without thinking and then wishes he could take it back immediately. "I could have used some wine," he adds.

Baldrick chuckles. "None of that to be had here, I am afraid. And the boy needs to learn not to creep around like a little spider," he says and waves a hand dismissively. "Although I suppose it does not matter; he has heard too much already."

"What has he heard?" Guy asks. "You have still not told me what is to be done."

"Right," Baldrick says. "We have received word that a number of influential figures are on their way here with the intent of making pilgrimage into the city. The recent treaty has been good news to those that have been waiting these past five years." He pauses. "Do you know much about the First Crusade?"

"They are all the same," Guy says, not able to keep his weariness from affecting his judgment. He rubs at his eyes. "I mean, I do not."

That seems to throw him off course. "Are you not dedicated to the reclamation? I had thought that because the King sent you--,"

"I am dedicated to whatever I have been sent here to do," Guy says. "I have . . . other reasons."

"I see." Baldrick frowns and laces his fingers together. He contemplates the plate before him as signs of frustration and anger do battle across his face. But when he lifts his head, his dark brown eyes are eerily vacant. "Well, whatever your reasons, we are to sacrifice a few to aid the many. As I said, there are a number of influential pilgrims on their way here. We will make martyrs of them; their deaths will go down in history as the spark that fired the cleansing flood."

Guy says nothing. Baldrick watches him with an eager expression, as though waiting for a shout or other proof of fervent support. The dog shuffles to his feet with a low growl and comes to sit at its master's side. Baldrick pats its head, which is dark and glossy in the flickering light. It turns to regard him as well.

"So we are to be assassins," Guy says finally. He had expected that this mission would involve death, but nothing on such a grand scale. _It is no matter_, he tells himself, _he has done it before. _

Baldrick's mouth twists. "Not assassins," he says as though the words are in danger of turning sour in his mouth. "We will be stewards of a new era."

"I do not understand."

"We will dress as Saracens. I am told that you have experience in such matters."

Guy looks at Baldrick sharply, expecting to find some trace of wry amusement, but his face is free of any sort of guile.

"Do not forget that they have attacked our people before," Baldrick says, taking his look and the resulting silence as hesitation. "They will do it again, I have no doubt, but we do not have time to wait for the inevitable. Support has grown weak; _faith _has grown weak. Richard is being torn away from his true calling as we speak. And yet if we do this thing, he will have reason to stay."

He should not question, he should just nod and ask where he will be sleeping tonight. But Guy cannot stop himself from raising a skeptical brow. "And all of this will result from the death of a few pilgrims?"

"Not a few," Baldrick says and beams. "Many. We are not the only ones—of this I have been assured. We are only a small thread in the design."

This man is entirely demented—that much is obvious—but it is not the first time that he has worked with those who have been driven insane by a cause. "I see. So who are we to kill?"

"The Abbess of Chelles. And her attendants."

Guy can only blink across the table. "A woman? A nun?"

"The rallying cry needs to be strong."

"I do not kill women," Guy says before thinking. He opens his mouth to correct himself, to smooth the waters, but then stops. No. He does not kill women. "Find me someone else to kill."

"There is no one else. I was given to understand that you were devoted to the cause," Baldrick says, sounding more sad than angry, and his hands move beneath the table. At first Guy thinks that he has gone once again to pet his dog, but they emerge again with a dagger, which he calmly lays on the table. His hand rests on the jeweled hilt. "Perhaps you should reconsider. I would hate to inform Richard that I am lacking a helper."

The metal of the blade glints between them, and Guy fixes his eyes on that instead of Baldrick's shuttered gaze. He has never killed a woman before. He finds the idea repugnant and more than a little frightening. Back in the days when his actions still had the power to cost him sleep, that fact had been the one thing that made it possible to keep going. These were his rules, this was his code. If he crossed that line, there would be no going back; the blood would stain his hands forever.

Guy looks up to study the man across from him. Baldrick has lost interest in watching the man he is threatening. He hums beneath his breath, picking through the meal for the tender bits of chicken hiding in the heart of the breast. When he finds them, he passes them to the dog like small tributes, smiling when the beast licks his fingers with loud, sloppy slurps.

Guy still has his sword—he could run this madman through right now, escape the city, and go . . . where? It would have to be away from Richard, which rules out most of Europe, not to mention the fact that the money he brought with him on this doomed mission is quickly running out. Still, he could do it.

But Marian. _Marian. _There would be no way to get word to her without endangering them both and no message that would be able to shatter her starry-eyed notions of her benevolent king. Even if he could, there is no guarantee that she would join him, he thinks, and then laughs at himself. No guarantee? Try no chance.

Richard will not harm her, not with Hood there to stop it. Now that Guy knows the true nature of their relationship, he has no doubt that the outlaw would protect her, wed her, even though she was no longer a maid—Guy would have, after all. They would have fat, happy children and preside over fat, lazy peasants who cheated them at every corner.

_Let her go, _a voice says, and the idea of it makes his heart stop even though it is the smartest option. He does not know if he will ever be able to stomach the fact that Marian has accepted him as a cause rather than a person. Even if by some stroke of luck he would end up with Nottingham, Hood will still be there like a prize Guy is constantly withholding from her. The future stretches out before him with perfect clarity. He will love her more and more, and hate her for it. She will be in the same room, and he will miss her. This is the moment to walk away, to wash his hands of all the mistakes and disappear. She will forget him in a week.

"I will do it," Guy says, not realizing that he's agreed until Baldrick turns his head and smiles.

"I thought you might. Do not worry," he says. "They are approaching the city as we speak. It will not be long. Would you like something to eat?"

"No. I am tired."

Baldrick yells for Ahmad, who is back in the door faster than a shadow. "Take a candle. Show our guest to his room."

Ahmad nods and fumbles with the candle at the end of the table. When he has lit it, he waves for Guy to follow him up the dim, earthen stairs. The boy takes them two at a time, but Guy moves slowly. By the time he reaches the small chamber that sits across from the mouth of the hall, Ahmad is flitting about the room fluffing a pillow and brushing the dust from the top of a heavy oaken headboard. Before he leaves, he goes to the corner and gathers a small pile of linens and a few wooden toys.

"Were you sleeping here?" Guy asks, and Ahmad shakes his head so forcefully that Guy fears his small neck might snap. Before Guy can say that it is fine, Ahmad has already rushed from the room and disappeared down the stairs.

There is an open window, but it faces the dark wall of the next building. Guy falls on the bed, not bothering to remove his clothing as he tries to find a bargain that he will not break. He will do this one last time, one final sin, and then no one will ever know. He will have Marian, and she will do all the good things that he gave up long ago. It will be fine, he thinks, and over soon. It will.

* * *

A week passes without any word of the pilgrims, and then another. Baldrick grows increasingly distressed, and Guy begins to think that this is purgatory. He wants to send a message to Marian to explain his delay, but there is no way.

Every morning Baldrick waits at the window and studies the small sliver of sky while chewing his fingernails impatiently, only pausing to yell at Ahmad now and then for imagined infractions. When his mood turns really black, he belittles him for things that are out of his control, such as changes to the city since Saladin has returned. Destroyed walls, converted churches, there is nothing that does not land on his shoulders. The boy never speaks a word in his own defense, just bows his head and holds his tongue. Occasionally he will reach a hand toward the dog, which snaps at him every time.

"What are you waiting for?" Guy finally asks Baldrick, his curiosity getting the better of him after fourteen days of witnessing the same dull play acted over and over again. The fact that it stops Baldrick's invective is incidental.

Baldrick faces him with surprise; up until now, Guy has done everything in his power to avoid engaging him in conversation. "A pigeon," he admits finally. "I have a man who will send a message when the pilgrims land in Jaffa. And one with the King. It's quite an ingenious system, really. You can say one thing for the Turks—they are clever."

But the next few days bring no pigeon. One morning Guy rises to find Baldrick waiting downstairs with a bag in his hand and a panicked look in his eye. "Something is not right. I am off to the coast. I should be no more than a day. Ahmad and the dog will stay." He fixes Guy with a stern look, which looks strange in his round face. "If you are not here when I return, I will alert the King."

"I will be here," Guy says stiffly.

"Good. Ahmad will get whatever you need. He understands more than you think," he says, and then, blessedly, leaves.

* * *

Next time, on "Fallout":

A new Sheriff of Nottingham is named.

Marian is so over King Richard.

Guy, Marian, and Allan together again—in Jerusalem!


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: **_Fallout _(14/?)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Everyone but Guy. Robin/Marian stuff, so hide your eyes. (Guy/Marian in spirit, of course.)  
**Word Count:** 9400. Yeah. I know.  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

**A/N: **Wow, this chapter is long. It might be super-boring, too, because I just cannot write Robin/Marian. I'm just going to warn you up front that it is Guy-less, but the next chapter should make up for that I hope. Apparently, I cannot stick to an outline to save my life, so the "Next time on _Fallout_s" may have to be taken in a very _Arrested-Development_ sort of way.

Thanks again for all the lovely feedback!

* * *

Marian lasts three days before she writes down the directions. When she finally gives in, she convinces herself that it is because of Robin. If he decides to follow Guy then she will need to follow Guy, and it would be better to know where she is going. And, after all, scribbling a few things on parchment is hardly breaking her word. Even so, the prickles of guilt that come from stretching her promise are unfamiliar and uninvited.

She begins to spy on Robin, half hoping that he will lose his head again and give her an excuse to leave this dusty, draining camp. At first she worries that William will be a problem, but he is content to follow her wherever she goes without questioning their many stops "to rest" behind large objects.

For the first two days, it seems like Marian will get her wish. She watches Robin question men about Guy's preparations. Did he mention where he was going or any particulars about his task? What was his demeanor? The men only shake their heads before returning to their lazy conversations. Robin grows increasingly frustrated, and Marian begins to wonder why he does not just ask Richard directly. She used to think that she knew him better than anyone; now she cannot even call his next move.

If they brush Robin aside, the men pay her and her questions even less mind. She misses England, where everyone knew who she was and what side she fought for. There, the people would answer her questions and thank her for her help. Now, other than the few soldiers who watch her like she has three heads, she might as well be invisible. She spends most of her time chatting with William—or the army's horses. Perhaps this is why the men look at her strangely.

When Allan sticks his head into her tent after what feels like a century of solitude, she is so happy that she could tackle him to the ground and kiss him just for visiting her. Thankfully, she restrains herself. No need to appear desperate.

"Has Robin sent you to spy on me?" Marian asks as he enters, using all of her willpower to keep her voice cool and detached instead of hopeful. She does not know what answer she wants, although for someone determined to win her back, Robin has kept a surprising amount of distance.

"Er, no," Allan says and takes a seat on the end of her pallet. He appears leaner than normal, and his skin is tan from the Holy Land, causing his blue eyes to shine even brighter. Not for the first time, she thinks that it is strange seeing these different versions of people she has known for years.

"Then why are you here?" she asks, not quite believing him. "I fear I do not have any information for you, if that is what you are after."

Allan holds up his hands, mimicking innocence. "Can't a friend visit another friend too see how they are doing?"

"I suppose," she says cautiously. "If we are friends."

If he hears that, he doesn't give any indication. "Can't a friend visit another friend," Allan continues, "and ask if they have any secret trips on the horizon?"

"What?"

"You've been following Robin. You're planning something."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been following you."

Embarrassed at her cluelessness, she can only ask why.

He shrugs. "There are people who want to make sure that you stay put."

"What people?" Marian asks. "Guy?"

"He might be one of them."

And so it begins. "I told him I would stay here," she snaps and then begins to pace. "He did not need to assign me a watchdog. I gave him my word."

"Well, that's about as good as a third nipple, innit?" Allan says and then folds his arms across his chest. "So let me get this straight. Robin spying on you is right as rain; Guy spying on you is like spitting on your dead grandmother?"

She ignores that question _and_ its implication. "I am staying put," she says, and the last two words come out like a curse. "I only followed Robin to make sure that _he _is staying put. Is he?" she challenges.

"As far as I can tell," Allan huffs and then studies his knees. "He's not sharing much these days."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, one day he's avoiding the King like the pox, and the next they're taking long secret walks together."

That explains why she has not been able to find him lately. She tries to avoid the King—the closer she gets to him, the more pairs of eyes who are likely to notice her skulking about.

"What do you think they are discussing?" she asks.

Allan squints, looks up. "Who knows?" he says, and then sniffs. "It smells horrible in here, Marian. Like something wet curled up and died," he adds, lifting his boots and checking the bottoms of his soles before casting a disgruntled look about the tent with a wrinkled nose.

"You can leave if you find it so offensive," she snaps.

"Alright then," he says and makes to leave before Marian beseeches him to wait.

"Have you heard from Guy?" she asks, hating the note of desperation that hangs on the end of it. It has been far longer than a week, and there has been no message, causing her emotions to swing wildly between annoyance and a twittering worry. A part of her wants this Holy Land saga to be over, while another dreads his return, and still another wishes that she would at least receive news that he is alive. She wonders if she will ever have a whole feeling again.

Allan raises his eyebrows. "Why would I hear from Guy?"

"I thought you might be reporting my actions. He's paying you, I presume."

"Nah, this is just a favor," he says, waving it off. "You know as much as I do."

"I know _nothing_."

"Exactly." Allan studies her with a quizzical expression. When he refuses to stop, she looks away. "You don't need to be worried," he says after a bit. "Guy can take care of himself. He's smart when it comes to protecting his neck."

"I'm not worried," she says quickly. "Although we are speaking of the man who did not know I was the Nightwatchman for three years."

"We all have our blind spots," Allan shrugs. "You happen to be his."

Marian frowns; time to swim for safer waters. "And what are yours?"

Allan thinks for a moment. "Redheads."

"I thought you liked nuns."

"Redheaded nuns."

The grin comes before Marian can catch it. Back in the castle she had been angry at Allan, her sometimes collaborator, sometimes enemy. But now he feels like the only person in whose presence she feels completely relaxed. It used to be Robin.

"Will you be spying on me again any time soon?" she asks, willing her thoughts away from further reflection down that road.

"I told you, it's not spying—it's dropping in on a troublesome friend."

She should be offended by his cheek, but she is just relieved to be talking to someone who is not a horse.

"Fine," she says graciously. "Will you be dropping in again?"

"Depends how often Will and Djaq are making cow eyes at each other," he mutters, but snaps to attention when he sees her surprised look. "You won't get rid of me that easily, Marian. Stay out of trouble, will you?" he finishes and slips out of sight.

* * *

There is no sane reason for her to continue following Robin, although boredom is slowly starting to seem like a valid excuse to do anything. In fact, when he does come to visit, she hides. She and William return from a morning walk to find him lounging in front of her tent as though it were the most common thing in the world, and she is gripped by a sudden panic. She retreats before Robin can notice her, dragging her confused guard by the arm. The next time they return, he is gone. Disappointment mingles with relief.

And yet one afternoon, in the middle courtyard of the camp, Marian spots Robin deep in conversation with the King. They are surrounded by a smattering of official guards, but Robin's expression is dark, the kind that she is only used to seeing when a scheme did not end his way. Marian notices that a few of the men have begun to look toward them nervously. Richard notices as well. Clapping a hand on Robin's shoulder, the King steers him away from the crowd, taking their conversation somewhere more private.

"Let's walk this way," Marian tells William, who is standing at her elbow staring longingly toward a group of soldiers who appear to be his own age. They are laughing, and trading jokes, and for the first time she realizes how wearying it must be for him to play nursemaid. Perhaps his repeated queries about the date of Guy's arrival are not just the world's way of reminding her that the future will be returning at any second.

"Or perhaps you can join them," Marian suggests, inspired. "I do not mind. We have walked around this entire camp and I have never once felt unsafe."

Marian can tell that her suggestion is a welcome one by the way that William's eyes light up, but he only says, "I should not."

"I will not go far," she insists.

"Are you sure?"

"I am positive. See your friends," Marian urges, and then smiles when he beams. She smiles more when his happy trot changes to a manly stride at the last second, and then turns to hurry after Robin and the King.

She is beginning to learn the camp's patterns, which helps her in her mission. Now that it is midday, most of the men are sure to be socializing in the public areas, exchanging battle stories and talking of home. The area through which she is walking now appears to be deserted, so it is easy to pick out Robin's voice above the caws of a few solitary birds and the sift of sand displaced by the occasional ripples of breeze. Peeking around a corner, she finds them still in conversation. Robin's back is to her, and Richard's hand still rests on his shoulder. Instead of meeting the King's eyes, however, he studies the ground.

"Robin, you are one of my most loyal servants," Richard says to bowed head. "You must trust me that this business need not be of concern to you. If you cannot believe me as your friend, then believe me as your King. I did not send you because I thought it beneath you. There is no need to speak of it in front of others."

Robin looks up, and Marian can tell that he is unconvinced. "My lord," he says, "while I appreciate your high regard for me, I still do not understand why you sent Gisborne. He is a known traitor. I have told you of what was done in Nottingham."

Marian is not prepared for the anger that gathers in her throat, thick and real. She still harbors her own doubts about Guy's mission, but it galls her that after all that she has begged and pleaded, Robin refuses to let this go. They have enough to deal with right now without Robin tattling on Guy to the ruler of England.

Richard is equally displeased. Up until now, his tone has been warm—friendly even—but now a coolness descends. Marian can hear it plainly, even from her hiding spot. "Gisborne is also my known savior," he says in a voice that is clipped and measured. "And as for your shire, I have done my best to rectify any past errors on my part. More than enough. I will hear no more about it."

A swift wind drowns out Robin's response. Marian leans forward, trying to stretch her ears as far as they will go, but before she can catch anything new a grunt from behind startles her. Turning, she finds herself face to face with a large man whose bristling black beard appears large enough to drown a small child.

"What are you doing here?" he barks, stepping forward.

Flustered, Marian can only snap back, "What are _you _doing here?"

"This is my tent," he says gruffly before his voice turns sickly sweet. "Not that I don't mind a visit from a lady…"

Marian steps away quickly, not realizing until it's too late that she's now left standing out in the open. A glance to the right reveals that this has not escaped Robin and The King's notice. The former is grinning at her with a knowing sparkle in his eye, the way he used to do when they were caught in some sort of mischief—mischief that he would always talk himself out of and for which she would always end up punished. The King, however, is not nearly so amused.

"Lady Marian, where is your escort?" he asks with very little intonation, looking beyond her shoulders to the man who interrupted. The giant grumbles under the King's gaze and then ducks into his tent.

She gives a hasty curtsy. "My lord, I thought that William deserved a break from me. I told him that I could return to my tent alone, but I seem to have lost the way." She smiles as brightly as her cheeks will allow.

"As considerate as that is, it is not your place to decide who deserves what."

The King's light-blue eyes search her face, making Marian feel as though she is being weighed and measured. A quirk of wry amusement plays at the corner of his lips, but the calculation in his gaze is cold. A sense of déjà vu hits her like a fist, and yet she can not figure out why; other than the first day they arrived, she has never been allowed into his presence. If he only knew who is truly responsible for the fact that he is standing here now, alive.

She looks to Robin, who is still smiling at her and watching her from beneath his bangs. He could chime in any time, really. When it becomes plain that he will not, she says, "I apologize. It was not my wish to be presumptuous."

Richard's mouth thins as he continues to stare at her, and Marian begins to feel unsettled. Even if he suspects her of eavesdropping, does it really merit such annoyance?

"I am happy to escort you back to your tent, Marian," Robin says before she can excuse herself. He is still amused as he walks to her and gallantly offers his arm.

She ignores it. "That is not necessary."

"Oh, but I insist."

Marian looks to Richard, who is still waiting for her next move with great interest. Her heart begins to pound. She does not want to be on the wrong side of the King of England. Grudgingly, she takes Robin's arm with a muttered phrase of gratitude, and they begin to walk after Robin makes his pardons to the King.

"Tell me," Robin says when they have escaped Richard's sight, "is spying on me harder than spying on Gisborne?"

She looks at him sharply. His face is cheery, relaxed. "I have not been spying."

It sounds weak, even to her, but it seems to be the answer that Robin expects. He stops walking and turns to face her, dipping his head to meet her eyes. The sun has bleached his hair, the blond streaks competing for dominance with the brown. He looks happy and healthy. That should not upset her.

"Then you must miss me," he counters, and then drops his voice as a hand comes up to touch her cheek. "I have missed you."

She moves backward, out of his reach. "You have come to see me once. It must not be too overpowering a feeling."

"How do you know . . . ," Robin starts before his eyes widen. "I thought I caught a glimpse of your back that day," he says proudly, and Marian curses her oversight. "You are avoiding me. Am I so great a temptation?"

The teasing is light-hearted, but it sits uneasily on her skin. There are so many secrets between them now that this banter only scratches the surface and reveals the dark spots beneath. She does not want to do this; she just wants to escape.

"A few weeks ago you ordered me to leave you be," she says flatly, moving forward in the direction of her tent without looking to see if he follows.

She weaves through the trickle of men who are returning to their sleeping places for a late afternoon nap. Behind her, Robin makes excuses to the soldiers as he rushes to catch-up. He steps in front of her, and she wants to scream. She is tired of men trying to corral her as though she were a flighty mare. She is about to tell him so when his face goes solemn.

"Marian, I am sorry for the things I said to you. It was just a shock." He squints and studies the bustle of people around them. "Things are still a bit of a shock, to be honest."

She feels her defenses begin to crack; lately it seems like the tiniest bit of kindness will turn her into a sobbing mess. "Thank you for that," she says quietly after a few moments.

He must find that encouraging because he leans forward and says, "Come to our camp tonight."

Marian panics. She has given too much, let down her defenses. "I am grateful for your apology, but it does not change anything," she says. "I am still marrying Guy."

"Of course you are," he says as though she had just told him she plans to oust Berengeria and become Queen of England. Thankfully, it means that she is back to wanting to choke him.

"There are things that you do not know," she tells him.

He grows serious. "Like that you still love me?"

"Stop it, Robin."

"It is the truth."

She looks away in a huff, wishing that she could wholly refute it even while the feelings in question surge up and stick in her throat. She does love him, but it is no longer uncomplicated or pure. Even now it is beginning to be overtaken by guilt; she should not be here talking to him. It is not fair to Guy or to herself.

Looking directly into his green eyes, she says, "I believe that I know the way from here. Thank you for your assistance." She starts to walk away, willing herself all the while not look back.

"The invitation for tonight still stands. It will not feel right if you are not there to celebrate with us," he calls from behind her.

Damn him and damn her curiosity. "Celebrate what?" she asks, pausing but remaining facing away.

"You will have to come and see."

She turns around to press him for more information, but he only holds up his hands and walks away.

* * *

She tries to resist, but the thought of one more evening alone in her tent—coupled with the mystery of what could possibly merit celebration in such a tangled situation—eventually pushes her over the edge. Her mind is strong, she assures herself. And if that fails, all she needs to do is imagine explaining to Robin the fact that she is no longer a maid due to a fit of insanity; that should help her keep her distance.

Grapping a wrap, she steps out into the cool night air only to come face to face with Carter. He is eating seeds, and the shells surround his feet in a halo. He has been here for awhile.

"You startled me," she says. "Why are you here? Where is William?" She has not seen her young guard since she left him in the courtyard this afternoon. Now she begins to worry.

"He's been reassigned," Carter says.

"Reassigned? Why?" Marian cries. William was the sole reason that she has been able to hold onto even a tiny sliver of freedom. She is puzzled. Guy was obviously not exaggerating when he said that Richard wanted her to stay here, but Marian can't for the life of her decipher the reason.

"The King didn't say," Carter says. "Where are you going, Lady Marian?"

"To see Robin. I was invited," she insists, still uneasy, but Carter nods and then tilts his head in the direction of Robin's camp.

They make their way to the outlaws' tents—or former outlaws' tents, really. As they get closer, as she hears familiar laughter floating toward her, her heart begins to lift. She wants to see Djaq and Will and Little John and even Much, as long as he is no longer scowling at her. By the time they reach the roaring campfire and she sees the gang's surprised smiles, she is bouncing inside. Robin, however, is nowhere to be seen.

Allan calls her name and stands up from where he had been sitting by Little John, stopping what seems to have been a very one-sided conversation. His face is flushed, and his eyes are bright. She looks down to see that his hand clutches a dark green bottle made of thick glass.

"Allan! Where did you get that?"

"I won it!" he crows, clapping her on the back so hard that it knocks the breath out of her. "I won it from a very stupid man with a very large gambling problem. And I have three more!"

"Well I suppose since it is a celebration," she says when she recovers, and begins to feel a bit giddy herself. "Do you know what the news is?"

"Nah, Robin hasn't told us. He probably was named best archer in the whole world or something like that." Allan looks behind him. "Who knows and who cares? Come. Sit. Have a drink."

Marian refuses at first—she has not drunk wine in ages as it dulled the senses that she needed to stay alert in the castle—but the mood is so infectious that she eventually takes a cup and lets the liquid warm her insides, from head to toe. Across from her Much fusses with a pot of what appears to be a bubbling stew, exclaiming loudly to no one in particular that this was short notice and he should not be held accountable for the result. When he catches her watching, he smiles bashfully, and she realizes that he is just returning her own.

Djaq and Will have been sitting quietly to one side, heads bowed as they whisper intimately to one another. Their hands are resting side-by-side in between them, and Marian can see the tips of their fingers. After watching their pinkies flirt for a good three minutes, it suddenly strikes her that something has changed. Her head snaps up to study Djaq's face, and it does not take Djaq long to feel the weight of her gaze. She stops whispering with Will and scoots toward Marian, who, in a moment of boldness and good cheer, nods at the carpenter as she leans forward.

"Are you two . . .?" Marian begins, but then falters. Her own relationships are so convoluted that it's affecting her ability to even define others. Djaq, however, understands her meaning immediately. Marian is surprised to see the normally reserved Saracen woman blush.

"We are."

"When did this happen?"

"When we thought that we would die the next day," Djaq says with a wry quirk of her mouth. "It is good. I am happy."

Marian smiles, knowing that those words are perhaps the most effusive ones she will ever hear coming from Djaq's mouth.

"Will you marry in Nottingham?" she asks idly as she watches the bright oranges of the fire. She is beginning to feel a tad bit light-headed. It is only when Djaq does not respond that Marian turns to study her.

"I believe that we will stay in the Holy Land," Djaq says quietly after a few moments. "We have not told anyone else yet. I do not want to ruin Robin's surprise, but we have been making plans."

Marian blinks, not knowing what to say. "That is . . . well . . . congratulations," she finishes lamely. Plans, she thinks with some amazement. Did she and Robin ever make plans? She tries to think back to all of their discussions, but she never remembers discussing anything past the shining day of the King's return. She had never even thought about the wedding. When Allan offers to refill her cup, she accepts.

"And how are you?" Djaq says, startling Marian from her thoughts. "I am glad to see that you are on speaking terms with Robin again. I knew that he could not maintain such a high level of stupidity for so long. Perhaps there is still a way for you to reconcile," she says with a friendly nudge.

It is a gentle prodding, but it is prodding nonetheless. For the first time this evening, Marian's bonhomie wavers. She does not want to discuss Robin; she knows that is ridiculous, considering she is sitting here with his friends in his camp at his behest, but that is how she feels. She does not want to reconcile. Why does no one understand that she is proud of her decision to see her promise through, proud of her commitment? The loneliness that has plagued her for this past month returns with a vengeance.

"I am fine," Marian says shortly, causing the other woman's brow to drop into a concerned vee. Before she can smooth the waters with a diverting question or an explanation of why she is fine, a familiar voice rings out from across the fire.

"Will, pour me a cup of wine!" Robin orders, hands on his hips as he surveys the party scene before him. "I am in the mood to celebrate."

"Tell us the news first!" Will replies while lifting his own cup, which Djaq eyes with resigned amusement.

"A hard bargain," Robin says, acting wounded, "but one that I will take." His eyes travel around the circle, and when they find Marian his already large smile grows. "Will, Allan, Djaq, Little John, Much, and my lovely lady Marian, you are looking at the new Sheriff of Nottingham and restored Lord of Locksley."

At first there is stunned silence, and then Marian is surrounded by excited cheers and burbling conversation. Much goes to clap Robin on the back, Djaq has rejoined Will to hug, and Allan drains another cup of wine while giving a hearty toast that no one listens to. Even Little John stands and smiles, although he leaves the most boisterous celebrating to the others.

Marian, however, cannot move. At first she is just overwhelmed by a glow of success and gratitude. It worked—after years of watching the people around her suffer and starve, there will finally be justice again in Nottingham. Robin will be a good sheriff, a fair sheriff. His vanity will mean that there are numerous feasts and festivals, if only to provide more opportunity for the people to admire him, but she doubts that anyone will complain.

Even with her foggy brain, however, she can tell that something does not add up. Guy is on a mission for the King; Guy said that Richard had intimated that he would have Nottingham. Marian knows that she remembers this clearly, because of what a spectacularly horrible idea it was. Now it has been given to Robin while Guy is away. No, something is not right. She looks to Robin, who meets her eyes over the shoulders of well-wishers. He crosses to sit by her, splashing a bit of wine as he lands.

"Why such a long face, Marian? I thought that you would be happy for me."

"I am," she says and manages to muster up a smile. "Congratulations. You will be a good sheriff. The people of Nottingham have just been rewarded for enduring these last five years."

He studies her for a few moments with an uncertain expression, one that seems out of place on his normally confident face. "You can still be Lady of Locksley," he says softly, "if that is what bothers you."

The words are light, teasing, but Marian can hear the very real question beneath them. It scares her, and she blurts out, "Guy believed that the King would give him Nottingham." That could have been handled with more finesse.

"And you are disappointed that it has gone to me?" Robin asks, angry now.

"No!" Marian says, the words feeling thick and clumsy in her mouth. "That is not what I mean. But how did this come about? When was this decision made?"

"I discussed it with the King a few days ago, and he realized the benefit of bestowing the position on me."

"Just like that?" she asks. "Seems a bit flighty."

"You should watch your tongue," Robin says quickly. "You are criticizing the King of England."

Marian can only stare at him, slightly aghast. Who is this person?

"Robin of Locksley," she says in wonderment. "I have never seen you tell anyone to watch their tongue."

For a second he looks ashamed. He does not respond, just stares moodily into the fire. His whole body appears shuttered, walled off, and then she realizes; this is Robin keeping a secret.

"There is something that you are not telling me," she says, shifting so that she is facing him directly, a frontal attack. "What did you say to the King?"

"Certain . . . things came to light a few weeks ago. I did not want to believe them, but I finally had to accept that they could be true."

"What things?" When Robin does not continue, she grows impatient. "You say that you want to win me back, but you do not trust me."

"Vasey was not sent to Nottingham by Prince John like we thought," Robin begins. "He bought the position from Richard when he was raising funds for this campaign. Richard was unaware of his loyalty to John, or at least it did not seem important at the time. I confronted him with this, explained the horrible conditions of Vasey's rule, and argued that if he did not want them to continue, then he would be wise not to institute Gisborne in his place." Robin looks at her sharply. "You can hardly argue with that."

Marian ignores the last dig; she is still reeling from what came before. "_Richard _gave Nottingham to Vasey? But my father was a loyal servant to the crown for over twenty years!"

"Keep your voice down, Marian," he says, casting a worried glance at the rest of the camp, who, except for a drunken Allan, are still chatting excitedly with one another. "They do not need to know."

"They do not need to know that their King is a liar?" she asks, unable to restrain herself.

"Marian!"

"He is! I remember when my father stopped receiving regular letters, and the few that did come were riddled with excuses about the taxing nature of the campaign. Eight months later Vasey came with Prince John's blessing. My father never received another response to his pleas for Richard to intervene. We just thought that they were lost, or that the fighting was too great. But now . . .," Marian trails off. She does not want to be here any longer. _She _saved this man who betrayed her father, she _traded _herself so that he could live.

"I have to go," she says, stumbling to her feet and dashing off in a random direction. It is not until she reaches the edge of camp and sees the stars stretched out before her in a dazzling blanket that she realizes she has walked in the wrong direction. Exhaustion, bone-deep, overtakes her. She sits on the ground, stares out at the horizon. The moon turns everything silver. Soon a soft shuffle of feet approaches her from behind.

"Go away, Robin."

"Marian, I know that this is upsetting," he starts, but she does not want to hear him finish.

"How can you act so happy to serve him?" she interrupts.

"He is the King, Marian! And my friend. He realizes his mistake now, and has rectified it."

"Still…,"

"What would you have me do?"

Marian turns to face him and her anger crumbles a little to see his face so sympathetic in the moonlight. She knows that she is being childish, but she is so tired of hearing excuses, tired of feeling trapped. It seems that everyone has a master, even carefree Robin.

"You did not agree with Vasey," she says stubbornly, "and you refused to serve him."

"This is different. I have done my part to correct a wrong; there is nothing left to do." He moves forward, takes her hand before she can pull away. "Marian, there is something else. We are leaving in three days, going back to Nottingham. I want you to come with me."

"You know that I cannot do that."

"Why? Gisborne is gone, and I can protect you if he returns. We will be wed, and everything will be as it should be."

She feels woozy, discombobulated. The warmth in her stomach is merely an effect of the wine; the rest of her body feels cold and numb. "No, I won't do that," she says, shaking her head. "I made a promise."

As quickly as he grabbed it, he lets go of her hand. "You chastise me for my loyalty to a King, and yet you are loyal to someone far worse."

"I am loyal to my word," she corrects, although at this moment she does not want to marry anyone, especially not this stranger standing before her who looks like Robin but does not act like him.

That Robin sighs. "Marian, now this is just stubbornness. You would resign yourself to a cold marriage to prove a point."

"Perhaps it will not be a cold marriage!" she snaps without considering the consequences. At first she just wants to prove him wrong, but once they are off their tongue, she does not feel as though she has told a lie.

She has thrown Robin off balance as well. "What?"

"Perhaps it will not be a cold marriage," she repeats quietly, and it feels like a confession. "Perhaps there are feelings involved."

Robin's face crumples in disgust. "You love him?"

"No," she says, "but I do not hate him. I do not know what I feel," she rambles. "It is complicated." She closes her eyes; she has said more than she wanted. Things are spinning now, and all she wants to do is forget this entire evening, forget these last few months. "I am going," she tells him, walking by him on her way back to her tent.

This time, he does not follow.

* * *

When Marian wakes up the next morning, her mouth feels like a desert and her tongue its victim. She rolls over and blinks into the bright light as her eyes desperately try to focus. Memories of the evening rush back to haunt her, bringing with them a bout of nausea. Rushing outside, she barely makes it past a surprised Carter before she retches at the side of the tent.

"You are unwell," Carter says. "I will bring a physician."

She waves him away. "There is no need. It is just the result of overindulging last night. Please do not mention this to anyone."

Carter continues to look concerned, but he relents. Allan, however, is not so polite.

"Good show, Marian," he calls as he walks toward them, sounding impressed. "I woke up feeling like someone dropped rocks in my ear all night, but I didn't toss it."

"Congratulations," she says darkly, but it has no effect on his grin or his stupid sunny face. She is in a foul mood.

"I wanted to make sure that everything was alright. You disappeared."

"How would you know? You were passed out."

"Nah, I was just _pretending _to be passed out."

With everything that has happened, she does not feel up to unraveling the convoluted motivations of Allan A Dale. "I see," she says simply and then looks at him hard.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks

"I need to ask you a few questions," she says. Last night, even in her haze, she had managed to stay awake long enough to determine that there were things worth looking into, inconsistencies with holes, holes with inconsistencies. She will not blindly accept what Richard tells her, King or not, not after the betrayal of her father.

Now she turns to Carter, hating how she must ask permission for everything. "May I walk with Allan?"

Carter shrugs. It is obvious he resents his new assignment. "As long as you're accompanied, I see no problem."

She covers her frustration with a smile. "Excellent," she says and grabs Allan's arm and drags him behind her, ignoring his surprised protests. Once they are out of Carter's sight, she pushes him between two tents.

"Hey! What's with the roughhousing," he says and then looks at her warily. "Are you going to punch me again?"

"No!"

"Poke me in the eye?"

"Allan, be serious for once," she huffs and then tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. Her head is pounding, but she manages to ask, "I need you to tell me everything you've witnessed in the past month involving King Richard."

"What is this about?"

"Just answer the question."

"Well, this morning he came to the camp all friendly like, talking to Robin and asking him when he was leaving. But he was only there for a few seconds before a guard came and told him that someone had arrived with an urgent need to see him."

"Who?"

"What does it matter?"

"Allan!" she says and pinches his arm before she knows what she is doing.

"God's balls, Marian, that hurt!"

"I am sorry," she says. "But I need to know if he had a name."

"Some chap named Baldrick," he says, rubbing his arm and muttering. "You really are a nutter, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Baldrick?" she prods, ignoring the slur. "Baldrick was the man that Guy was supposed to see in Jerusalem. Is Guy here?"

"I haven't seen him."

"Me either," she says pointedly and raises her eyebrows. "Allan, I need you to find out what Baldrick is doing here."

Allan holds his hands up like a shield between them. "Marian, just so you know, this is coming off as a little crazy. I'm thinking that maybe you don't know when you are acting bonkers, so, from this point on, I am going to start telling you. I think it'll be a favor to you. A favor to us all."

She grabs his arm again, but this time refrains from pinching. "Allan, listen to me. There is something going on here. The King sends Guy, a man he knows collaborated against him in the past, on a secret mission with a promise of Nottingham when he returns—that is the first strange thing. He then tells him nothing other than the name of the man he is to meet, and insists that his betrothed stay here, assigning her a different guard when the one she has doesn't prevent her from listening in on his conversations with Robin, who it turns out has been given Nottingham. The next day the man Guy was to meet shows up here in Acre with an urgent message. Does that not wave a flag?"

Out of breath, she waits for Allan to respond, nervously checking his face for any signs of a response. He is silent. With Allan, that means that he is thinking hard.

Finally, he scratches his head. "It does seem a little strange, perhaps."

Her heart fills. She loves Allan, even when she wants to hit him.

"Yes," she agrees, "it does seem strange. I need you to find out what Baldrick is doing here. I would, but Richard has placed Carter on my back. And he is already displeased with me." When he makes no move, she looks into his eyes. "Please, Allan. You are the only person I can ask."

Allan deliberates for what feels like an eternity, and when he speaks, he only says, "I'm not risking my neck for this, Marian. The second it seems dangerous, I'm out. I mean it."

"Just do what you can."

He nods. "I'll come tell you if I find something," he says, and then leaves Marian to sit and wait.

* * *

Allan returns later that afternoon, when the sun is high and Marian is about to start counting strands of hair to keep her mind off of what is happening outside. As soon as he enters, he tosses a small packet of letters in her lap and then wiggles his fingers.

"I've still got it!" he brags. "Nabbed those off him while he was walking to find his horse. And let me tell you, he is a strange, strange little man. Muttering to himself about the ruination of destiny and all that."

She unties the rough twine holding them together and opens the top one, reading it furiously. "This is all about the plans of a group of pilgrims, among them the Bishop of Winchester." She picks up the next. "And this one is about the Abbess of Chelle. They have been detained in Cyprus due to illness in their party" She sorts through the rest of the letters, all of which contain the same brand of information. "He is tracking these people. Why?"

"I dunno."

"Me either. But I am going to find out." She crawls over to where she has stashed the directions, pulls them out. "I know where Guy is. It takes three days to get to Jerusalem. Were you able to find out where Baldrick is headed? I need to know if we must head him off."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Marian. Stop. Think about this. You said yourself that you cannot leave; not only do you have a guard, you are one woman in a camp full of men. He will know that you are gone. If it really matters that much that you are here, leaving could make things worse for Giz." He shakes his head and then begins to mutter. "I knew this was a mistake. Why do I get drawn into these things?"

"I can't just sit here and do _nothing_!"

"But you can't run off half-prepared either. You leave with the King's permission, or you don't leave at all." He hesitates. "The gang and I are leaving for Nottingham in two days. You have to promise me that you will stay here.

"Fine. I will find a way to leave without breaking any of your _rules_," she says firmly, brooking no further argument.

"Marian—,"

"I will."

Allan opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. When he leaves, she starts to plot.

* * *

A plan comes to her immediately, but at first she pushes it away. There has to be something else, something that will not require her to lie to the one person that she has always, _always_, sworn to tell the truth. Perhaps, she muses, she can convince the King that she is ailing and needs to return to England with an escort. After all, the stress of everything has been getting to her—she wakes up every morning feeling sick at her stomach. It doesn't take long, however, for her to see the weaknesses of that plan. The escort is likely to turn around and tell Richard the second she disappears, and she doubts that she could even convince the King to let her leave in the first place.

On the day Robin is set to leave, Marian accepts that she has no other choice. As she and Carter walk through the camp, she begins to tremble. It only grows stronger when she arrives to find the gang packing up excitedly.

"Bonchurch," Much says, rolling up a blanket and throwing it onto a pile of baggage that Little John is managing. "I like the sound of that. It sounds noble, don't you think?"

"Very noble, Much," Will says patiently as he sits and sharpens his axe. "And kind, and dignified, and rich, and authoritative, and all the other adjectives you have thrown out today."

"Well, I have to get your input now, don't I? Before it's too late."

"There are such things as letters, Much. We will not fall out of touch completely."

"You'll forget me. Djaq's forgotten me already—this morning she called me 'Tuch.' You laugh, but I heard it," he says over Will and Little John's chuckling.

"Is Robin here?" Marian asks even though she is loath to interrupt them. She needs to get this over with before she loses her nerve.

"Marian!" Much says, in good enough cheer that he approaches and speaks to her directly. "What do you think of when I say 'Much, Earl of Bonchurch.'?"

"I think it sounds very dignified," she concedes, "but I really need to speak with Robin."

"He's in the tent," Much says before his voice cools. "Come to say goodbye?"

Marian gives a strained smile and then walks away without answering. She pulls back the flap of the tent to find Robin and Djaq discussing what medical supplies they should take with them. Djaq sees her first, and whatever advice she had been giving trails off into nothingness. When Robin turns around to see what has captured Djaq's attention, he goes completely still.

Djaq's eyes dart back and forth between them before she says, "I will leave you two alone to talk," and makes her exit.

"If you have come to say goodbye, I do not want to hear it."

"I have not." She takes a deep breath. "I have come to say that I would like to go with you if you will still have me."

"What about the things that you said the other night?" he says, turning back to study the small sachets of herbs and instruments before him as though they were discussing the weather.

"I was not myself," Marian says. "I was . . . angry at what I learned about my father and Vasey, and I took it out on you. I am sorry."

"I understand. It was a shock to me as well," he adds, and then picks up the nearest pouch and studies its contents. "No _feelings _for Gisborne, then?" he asks with a forced casualness.

She smothers the small flare of anger that comes with his digging and keeps her voice level. She should give a flat "no," but instead she says, "None that are strong enough to last me a lifetime."

At first he does not respond, just pivots and studies her face with an intense concentration. She keeps her eyes wide, innocent. She has done it before, but never with him. A part of her hopes that he will see through this and prove that he still knows her better than anyone else.

But instead of calling her bluff, his face breaks into a smile. "Well, thank God for that. I thought that I was going to have to leave you here."

"We have to tell the King that I am going with you," she informs him. That is the second part of this plan. Some might think it the more difficult part, but she knows the truth.

"I can do you one better than that," Robin says, coming over to take her in his arms. "I will ask him to marry us."

"No!" she shouts, causing him to look puzzled. Before that puzzlement can turn to suspicion, she says, "I do not want to be married here. I want to be married at Locksley in the sight of all of the people that we helped."

He smiles. "Fine then," he says while ushering her outside. "We have all the time in the world."

Everyone stops what they are doing and looks at them as Robin squeezes her shoulder and tells them that she is coming with them. Little John and Will look pleased, and so does Djaq, although Marian worries that her eyes linger for a little too long on Marian's forced smile. Much seems a shade disappointed, actually, but he offers up hearty congratulations when Robin's gaze turns in his direction. Allan's expression, however, is thunderous. His lips are pursed, and he shakes his head at her as though she were a small child.

"Let me put the rest of our affairs together," Robin whispers in her ear, "and then I will talk to Richard."

"I would like to come, too," she says quickly. "Please."

"Marian, Richard does not like—,"

"I want to come," she says, determined.

Robin relents. "Alright. Stay here," he says and then hops back into the tent as she goes to sit on a valise that's full to bursting.

Allan uses the opportunity to approach her. "I know what you're up to," he whispers.

"I figured that you would," she hisses back after making sure that the rest of the gang is otherwise occupied. "I tried to think of another way, but this is the only way to get me out of the camp with the King's permission. He is unlikely to deny Robin anything."

"Marian, this is low."

"There is no other way!" Suddenly she realizes that she may have overlooked a possible setback. She grabs his wrist. "You are not going to tell anyone, are you?"

Allan studies his feet for a few moments. "No," he says finally. "That's not what I do."

"When the time comes, I want you to come with me," she says. "I will need help."

Allan says nothing, just looks around the circle at the friends who were his enemies for the past year. He stops when he reaches Will & Djaq and frowns. "I'll consider it," he says and then looks her straight in the eyes. "He won't forgive you for this, you know."

Marian looks away, and Allan eventually wanders off without waiting for her response. When she finally murmurs that she does know, it's only to herself.

* * *

Richard is not pleased. After Robin tells him of their plans, he does nothing but drum his fingers on the table in an angry rhythm. For the most part, he keeps his gaze fixed on Robin, but ever so often his eyes flicker over to peer at Marian with distaste and suspicion. She realizes now why his scrutiny feels so familiar; it reminds her of Vasey's.

"She is betrothed to another man," the King says shortly when he deigns to speak. "We should at least wait for his return to sort this out."

"Their betrothal was never official," Robin says, "and Lady Marian no longer desires it. There are no fathers or lands to complicate things."

"Still, I believe it best to wait." Richard gives Marian a cold smile. "We do not mind playing host for another few weeks."

Robin shakes his head. "My Lord, I fear the Nottingham has been without a sheriff for too long already. I am eager to return and right the wrongs that were carried out under Vasey's thumb."

Richard shifts his gaze back to Robin, and it warms slightly. There is genuine affection there, Marian notes with surprise. Allan is right; everyone has their weakness.

"And this is what you truly want? Women are fickle, you know," Richard says, and Marian sucks in an outraged breath. She hates this man.

"This is what I want," Robin affirms, and turns his head to smile at her. She pretends that she does not notice. If she looks at him, she might crack in two.

Richard tilts his head sardonically, as though realizing he is trapped. "Very well."

Marian is unable to resist one small test. "My Lord," she says sweetly, "I would like to send a message informing Sir Guy of my decision and carrying my apologies."

The King looks at her sharply, but his face remains impassive. "Of course," he says. "I may not be able to spare a messenger for a few days, but leave it with me and I will see that it is done."

"Of course," she matches coolly, knowing that this is one message that will never be sent. "Thank you for your understanding."

"Speak nothing of it." He smiles that arch smile once again, although this time she spots the anger running cold beneath it. It makes her shiver.

As he and Robin make their goodbyes, Marian steps outside into the sun. She is leaving the camp, and she will not miss it, not even a bit. It has changed everything. When Robin comes up behind her, she jumps.

"See, that wasn't so hard," he says. "Ready?"

Too overcome to speak, she can only nod.

* * *

Marian fears that Robin will realize her duplicity as soon as they are away from camp, but if he suspects anything, he hides it well. Most nights are spent joking and laughing with the gang, which soon dwindles to Much, Little John, and Allan when after they say goodbye to Will and Djaq the second day. She is grateful that they do not speak of the future, although it still strikes her as strange.

She waits until they are several days out before she escapes. In Tyre they stop to rest at an inn called the Wandering Rabbit, and she takes that as her cue to leave. She waits for everyone to be asleep to gather up the supplies and money that she's been hoarding for the past few days and then changes into the clothing she swiped from Much. Praying that this disguise will at least divert some attention, she shoves her hair beneath a skullcap.

Only one more thing to do. She removes a letter from her bag and then, silently, moves down the hall to where Robin is sleeping. The door is locked to prevent thieves, and so she is forced to slide it beneath the door. It is better this way, she tells herself before creeping down the stairs and out to the stable to saddle up her horse.

As she is fixing the harness, she hears the twitch of hay behind her. She reaches for the small dagger she's stashed in her pockets and whirls around.

"Geez, Marian, watch where you point that thing," Allan says. The moonlight falling through the slats in the wood illuminates an eye and a hand.

She lowers her dagger, but does not put it away. "I am leaving, Allan," she says

"I know," he says, resigned. "And I'm coming with you. I told Guy I'd watch out for you, and I will. I've decided it's easier to join you than fight you."

She should take offense at that, but it is a relief to know that she will have company, that she will have something to keep her mind off the consequences of what she's just done.

"Good," she says, taking a deep breath and throwing a bag at him. "Then let's go."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **First off, I am SO SORRY that it has taken me this long to update. I've been distracted by trying to finish my original novel project, which I did. So now back to _Robin Hood_ing.

As always, I appreciate all the continued encouragement, and I am thrilled that people are still interested in it. (Pay-day-thrilled. Chocolate-thrilled. [Insert your own thrilling thing]-thrilled.) The next chapter is already half-written, so it will not be another month before I update, I swears. Hope this isn't too rusty.

* * *

Guy had mastered the rules of working for Vasey by the time he was fifteen. One: Vasey was less likely to hit you if you stood on his right side. Two: Vasey hated fish, so hope that you were already standing on his right side if the kitchen was stupid enough to serve it to him. And three: the wise man feared Vasey's boredom, for it was far more dangerous than any temporary rage.

It was Vasey who had started calling Guy "Gisbourne," resurrecting it one day in a fit of restlessness and then encouraging the guards to use it. Guy protested at first, but by that time he had learned what battles were worth fighting. He had grown used to the endless needling, the never-ending tests of loyalty. Not many around him realized it, but Vasey was always playing games. He turned stable boys against each other and sent dishes back at banquets, desperate to see how far he could push his hosts. As he accumulated power, the game grew wider and more ambitious—stable boys turned into guards, hosts turned into lords—but one thing remained constant: he never tired of tormenting Guy. All of Guy's largest mistakes were made when he forgot that simple fact.

They had been in Nottingham for over a month before Guy saw Marian. Edward would accept Vasey's belittling invitations to dinners; anyone could see that he was tired of fighting, tired of resisting. Guy had heard that he had a daughter, heard that she was comely and that the people loved her. Edward would make excuses for her absence, claiming illness or a consuming project, until one night he could find no more. And then Marian arrived, changing the world.

She rarely spoke at these gatherings, and she only gave smiles to the servants. And yet unlike most of the women he had met here, whose presences were so wispy and inconsequential that you barely remembered meeting them, she drew attention. He wasted an entire course staring at the shadows the firelight set dancing along her collarbone. He would have wasted another if Vasey hadn't snapped his fingers in front of Guy's eyes.

"Pay attention, Gisborne," he said, rattling his plate for good measure before following his Master of Arms's gaze with a curled lip. "I see you've been enchanted by a leper. I was beginning to think you liked things in breeches."

You_ like things in breeches_, Guy thought, but he only muttered something about her being pretty.

For a second, Vasey's eyes clouded with anger—and perhaps jealousy—but it was soon covered by a chuckle and a smile that showed his incisors. "Normally I would say that you've pointed your arrow too high, but they are struggling and she's withering on the bough. You might have a chance," he finished, sounding unexpectedly generous. He nodded in Edward's direction. "You should speak to her father. Go on."

"Not now," Guy growled, gripping his cup so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Vasey smiled knowingly. "Come, come. You'll never fit in with the nobility if you hide from them."

Guy made no response, just drained his drink and called for another. He wished that she would look toward him, give him some encouragement, but that only happened once and her face and posture were inscrutable. When Guy caught her eye, she turned to whisper something in her father's ear with a worried brow. Vasey watched the proceedings with what could only be called demented glee.

Now Guy wonders if this whole mess was a casualty of Vasey's boredom, another small game that expanded and expanded and then went horribly awry. Guy wonders a lot of things in the endless days when Baldrick refuses to return to Jerusalem, when the clay walls grow closer together and the pale desert light creeps from one end of the room to the other at a snail's pace. The running of Nottingham had rarely left Guy a moment to breathe or think, and he liked it that way. Now he has handfuls of time, baskets of it, oceans.

He cannot avoid thoughts of Marian, imagining her waiting in Richard's camp. He is not foolish enough to think that she is scanning the horizon for his return, and yet he can't help but feel pleased that she listened to him enough not to follow, that for once they have come to an agreement without any threats or tricks. He is less worried about Hood than he expected; while the workings of Marian's mind are still as decipherable to him as ancient Greek, he believes that she will be loyal to her word, if nothing else.

At first he ventures outside for distraction, grudgingly keeping to this forgotten quarter so as not to sabotage his "mission." The dry heat is difficult to get used to, as is the stark, bleached white of the surrounding homes. Every so often he sees the crest of a dome glittering on the hazy horizon, and he feels the remnants of his freedom. But he never stays out long; the foreign eyes and sounds soon penetrate his flimsy defenses, driving him back to what is quickly coming to feel like a cell. They fear him, and he fears them. It is difficult to tell whose fear is greater.

And so Guy relies on Ahmad to bring him things, to be his link to the outside world. The boy is a puzzle. He likes animals even when they do not like him, bringing treats for the lazy hound which has chosen to sleep away its master's growing absence. He also brings food to Guy, who is starting to feel like another pet.

More than a month has passed since Baldrick headed to Jaffa. Guy waits for Ahmad to signal that their money and supplies have run out, but he never does. One morning, when the boy has brought yet another trencher filled with various fruits and the meat that Guy has never wanted to identify, he stops him from leaving by stepping in front of the door.

"How do you buy this?" Guy asks, holding an orange in front of the boy's chin. He has never responded to Guy's questions, preferring instead to keep his head bowed and his gaze averted.

"This," he repeats. "Where does it come from?"

Disuse and frustration have sharpened his voice, and Ahmad backs away, making sure to put the table between them. His eyes follow Guy's hands with a wariness that Guy recognizes as that of someone who is often on the end of stray slaps.

"It was not my intention to scare you," Guy says, trying to keep his voice even and reassuring. "I only want to know if we will need other means to eat."

The boy stares across the surface of the table, uncomprehending. Guy searches for a coin and then holds it up next to the fruit. He mimes trading it for the orange, repeating the movement when the first time fails to earn a reaction. After the fourth time, Ahmad's brow creases in concentration.

Encouraged, Guy holds up the coin. "How many?" he asks and then holds up two fingers. "Two?" he asks, and then adds another. "Three?"

Ahmad's eyes light up. He wiggles his own fingers rapidly.

"No, it's not a game. How many?" Guy repeats and gets an enthusiastic nod for his trouble.

With a muttered curse, Guy yanks out a chair and throws himself into it, burying his head in his hands. This is pointless. Who knows when Baldrick will return? It occurs to him that he should be planning what to do if Baldrick never reappears. Does he return to Acre against Richard's orders and hope to find pardon and a reward anyway? There is no clear solution. There never is any more.

Lost in his thoughts, at first Guy does not notice the tiny taps on his shoulder. When he finally looks up, Ahmad is wearing an expectant expression. Smiling, he points to the ceiling and then walks to the base of the stairway.

"What?" Guy asks.

Ahmad makes a gesture urging Guy to come with him. Curious, Guy follows him up the narrow stone steps and through the stooped hall that leads to the tiny bed chambers. Ahmad stops at Baldrick's door and hesitantly cracks it open, just wide enough to allow his small form.

In all of his time here, Guy has not once entered Baldrick's chamber. The less he knows about the man, the easier it will be to forget this place once the task is done. But now he pushes the door open and steps inside.

The smell hits him first. It is musty from neglect, yes, but beneath that are older scents— incense, oil, spice—that grow stronger the closer he gets to Baldrick's bed and the small wooden table that must be a desk. A light cooing trills from a far corner, and Guy follows it to find two crates filled with pigeons. Ahmad stands before them, mimicking their cries as he slips his fingers between the uneven wooden bars. It is obvious that Baldrick left in haste; satchels lie haphazardly at the foot of the bed, and there are still items laid out on the small desk—a broken quill, a half-finished carving, and ten tiny pouches of stained cloth. Guy idly pulls open one of the pouches, revealing a shaft of bone. A relic, most likely a finger. He does not check the others.

"What is it that you wanted to show me?" Guy asks gruffly. He does not like this room or the way it wears its zealotry on its sleeve. The room downstairs is bad enough.

Ahmad leaves the birds, but not before he gives a speckled one a final pet on the head. Moving lightly across the room, he goes to the side of the high bed and crouches down. Guy hears a heavy scrape as the boy strains to pull something from beneath it. By the time he has walked over to help, the trunk is free from its hiding spot.

It is black and made of old wood. There are crude marks on the top, words that Guy has no time to decipher before Ahmad wrestles the lid from the base. Inside are coins of all kinds and creeds. Every so often their expanse is broken by various bits of jewelry, a few golden crosses, and a dagger with a decorated hilt. They are not all Christian, and some are not even anything Guy has seen before in the Holy Land.

Ahmad catches Guy's attention and then points to the contents proudly, delighted at having deciphered this strange man's ridiculous attempts to communicate. As Guy watches, he skims two coins from the top of the chest and drops them in a small pouch hidden beneath the hem of his ragged beige shirt. Then, closing the trunk, he pushes it back beneath the bed. He jumps to his feet, dusts off his hands, and turns on his way back to the jumble of the streets.

"You have left this here?" Guy says when he recovers from his shock. "For a month?"

Ahmad only blinks his dark eyes. They are back to the land of miscommunication

"You should have taken it and escaped," Guy says, not understanding the boy's devotion to a man who is obviously insane and who has no need of him beyond an animal keeper. He could have easily swiped the treasure weeks ago and left Guy to fend for himself.

The boy does not respond, only backs away with an uneasy expression. Guy does not know why it bothers him so much, this strange loyalty, or why Ahmad stares at him with more fear than he ever showed Baldrick. The boy's fists are clenched so tightly that the veins on the back of his hands stand out in stark relief.

"Go," Guy says, resigned, and then waves him away when Ahmad fails to move.

"Leave," he snaps again, and then wonders why he feels disappointed that, this time, the boy obeys.

* * *

The dream begins as it always does. Guy staggers through a forest of trees that turn into tents and tents that turn into trees, blood staining his hands and arms. Wiping them on his shirt only turns them a deeper red. Entering the tent-trees does not help; some lead to nothing and others transport him to versions of NottinghamCastle or Locksley, versions that are dead and empty, stripped of their people.

This time, however, Marian is waiting for him in a version of Locksley. She is in white—always white—but the walls are maroon, as are the tables, the chairs, and the bed, which is next to the fire and not upstairs where it belongs. Her back is turned—always turned—but when he touches her arm, he only leaves a gruesome handprint. Wordlessly, they stare at the bloodstain together.

Guy wakes up sweating. He wipes a hand over his face and rubs his eyes as though it will expel the images. The night is warm but stuffy, and no matter how hard he breathes, he cannot seem to gain enough air. Leaping out of bed, he pulls on his clothes and then stumbles into the alleyway outside of this prison, not caring that his eyes have not yet adjusted to the silver of the moon.

When they do, he finds that the narrow dirt road is—thankfully—deserted. Leaning against a wall, he gulps in the fresh air until his lungs are satisfied and his mind has shown itself willing to work with him to forget the imagery of his nightmare. And yet even after several minutes, his body rebels at the idea of going back inside, rebels at the very idea of four walls and a ceiling.

He needs to walk, and he does, although he hesitates at every new corner. He passes the small stable where Ahmad is keeping his horse, and—from the looks of it—sleeping by his horse. He passes the small well that will be surrounded by a cluster of inhabitants come early morning and a rare camel, sleeping with its long neck bowed like a lowered drawbridge. It does not occur to him that he has made a lap around the quarter until he is back at the mouth of his alleyway. He starts forward, feeling calmed enough to reattempt sleep, but then stops. Two dark figures huddle before his door, one holding a rope that leads to the shadowy bulk of a horse.

_Baldrick, _Guy thinks, cursing himself for being out when the man finally returned. He starts forward, excuses on his tongue, but the voices soon make him stutter to a halt. It is not Baldrick, and he has no weapon. Pressing close to the wall, he listens.

"I don't like it, I'm telling you," says a male voice. "I told you what my cousin said about them and the babies."  
"And where is your cousin now?" responds a second, and it is light, female.

"Last I heard he was arrested for lying to a Sheriff's guard."

"Then I rest my case," she says. "And besides, we have other things to occupy our worry than your cousin's superstition. I do not know where to go from here."

"What?" the man says in a whispered hiss. "I thought you knew where we were going. And do you know why I thought that? I thought this because two days ago you said, 'Allan, I know where we are going.'"

"I do know! Mostly."

"Marian, I swear—,"

"Oh you swear what?" she huffs. "We will find him."

"How, Marian? How."

"We will wait here until morning, and then I will ask someone if they have seen a large man dressed all in black scowling at people. That's how."

"That is the worst plan that I have ever—no, you know what? I'm not even going to try anymore. You—,"

Marian cuts him off with a sharp hiss to be quiet. "There is someone over there," she says. "By the wall."

And with that Guy's mind, which has been reeling for the past minute debating whether or not this is an extension of his dream, realizes that they are speaking of him. He also realizes that this is real, and that Marian, who he had thought was safe and ignorant in Acre, is now here in Jerusalem. With Allan. Against all of his wishes.

He strides forward, and Marian orders Allan to grab his weapon.

"I don't have a weapon," Allan says. "They took it before we were let into the city."

"Then grab something," she says through gritted teeth. She steps forward to meet him, and this final foolhardy gesture only angers him more. Beneath that, however, runs the keening fear that now she will know—_know_—what he is here to do. He has no idea what he will do or say when he reaches her—perhaps shake her until all of the defiance comes tumbling out. Or perhaps he will just look to the skies and declare his surrender.

But she does not give him the chance to choose his first move. When he is less than a man's length away, she cries out with relief.

"Guy! Allan, we've found him," she says and then moves toward him, pulling off the hood that had been covering her hair. She is close enough that he can make out her face, pale in the moonlight.

The familiarity of it—the wide blue eyes, the stubborn chin, the bow of her mouth—knocks away his remaining composure. He has not had company for over a month, and here is the one person that he would choose to see above all others. It is more than his beleaguered brain can take. She says his name again, this time as a question.

"I am glad that you are . . . I hope that you . . . It is nice to . . . here," she finishes lamely, her surprise and confusion rendering her less eloquent than he has ever heard her be. Her hand flutters forward as though she might touch his shoulder, but she pulls it back at the last moment. "You look well."

"Marian," he begins, but then does not know what he wants to say. He looks to where Allan hovers by the horse, watching them with interest, and it helps to break the spell of emotion. "Come inside," he orders, pushing open the door. "Tie the horse there. A boy will take care of it in the morning."

He keeps busy by building a fire in the hearth, counseling himself not to say anything until he's worked out what they are doing here now, after all of this time. But the questions come faster than he can rein them in. It is unlikely that she managed to extricate herself from the camp with Richard's permission. This will tangle things even further, and he is tired. Frustration gathers in his muscles. He throws wood on the small blaze that has started, and continues to throw it even when the fire has grown to a roar. A spark singes the back of his hand, and he curses.

"You are angry," Marian says from behind him in a voice that is meant to be consoling. "I understand that. But know that I kept my promise until I had information that prevented me from doing so."

Guy freezes. He would rather have heard that she was restless and bored than that she has found _information._

"Guy," she urges, "_say_ something."

"It is still a broken promise," he snaps, finally allowing himself to face her.

She is silent. He studies her in the firelight, which is is bringing out the red tones that lie buried in her hair. She is dressed in men's clothing again, this time a large white shirt and brown trousers that are disconcertingly tight at her hips. Her face is solemn, concerned even, but her cheeks are flushed. With pride, Guy imagines, pride at having disobeyed him once again.

"Whose clothing is that?" he asks and then, without waiting for an answer, looks to where Allan stands. "Whose clothes are those?"

Allan's eyes widen. He holds up his hands and makes to speak, but Marian cuts him off.

"That is your first question?" she asks, incredulous. "How about asking why we are here? I told you, there is a good reason."

"I doubt that."

"You have been gone for a month! Without even a message!"

"That is your reason?" he asks, a part of him wanting to believe that she missed him. But this is Marian—he knows otherwise. "I am sorry but I do not believe you."

Her mouth tightens, but she does not deny it. "You could have sent a message," she insists.

"I have a nine-year-old boy and a dog at my disposal. Which one would you have preferred carry it?"

"A dog? How domestic of you. I can see now why you did not want to hurry back."

"It is not mine!"

Marian opens her mouth to yell something, but Allan interrupts.

"I like dogs," he says from beside them, breaking the mounting tension. When they both look at him he shrugs. "I mean as long as we're on the subject. Where is it?"

Guy points to the mound of hound in the corner and then watches as Allan shuffles over to see it. When he returns his gaze to Marian, she appears calmer.

"Will you not even listen to what I have to say?" she asks. "I have come a long way to find you."

Her voice is full of sincerity. When he doesn't respond, she moves closer, until they are only a hand's breadth apart. She smells like the sun. He feels his resolve waver and fights the impulse to put a hand on her waist and pull her forward.

"That depends," he says after a long pause, frowning down at her upturned face. "Under what circumstances did you leave the camp? Richard was adamant that you stay."

Her face falls. She says, "I convinced him otherwise" while looking down at her hands. Now all he can see is her profile. He wonders how he had ever been taken in by such an apparent liar.

"You convinced the King of England to change his mind?" he asks with a derisive snort.

"I told him that the desert was making me ill and that I needed to return to England. To the convent as you first suggested."

"You are lying," he says and turns to where Allan is rubbing the hound's ears despite its muted growls. "Allan?" Guy says, waiting for confirmation.

Allan looks up, his eyes flickering from Guy to Marian and back. "Marian has been ill. A lot. Yesterday—,"

"The point is that we are here for a reason," she says hastily, throwing Allan a dirty look before turning back to entreat him. "Guy, there is something strange about what you have been sent here to do. The man you were to meet, Baldrick, was in Richard's camp just a week ago." She reaches into a sack that Allan had dumped on the table and pulls out a bundle of scrap parchment. "And we have these. Read them. You will see why I was concerned."

She thrusts the letters into his hand, and then leaves hers there longer than necessary, looking at him with a slight but hopeful smile.

Guy has never seen her so eager to work with him. Despite his better judgment, he sets the bundle on the table and unfolds the one on top . . . and then closes it when his eye immediately spots the words "Abbess" and "Chelle."

"This?" he says while holding it in front of her face. "This is nothing. Tomorrow you will start your journey back to Nottingham, taking a ship from Jaffa. Allan will accompany you. And then you will wait for me at Ripley."

She rips her hands away, horrified. "I will not!"

"Yes!"

"No! I am not sitting at a convent when there is something requiring my attention here."

"For once in your life, woman, keep your nose out of it!"

Suddenly, her eyes narrow. Wrapping her fingers around the back of a chair, she peers at him suspiciously. "What do you know?"

A fraught silence falls, one that's filled only by the pop of shifting logs.

"Nothing," he says finally, his heart pounding as he balls up the letter in his hand and throws it into the fire. "And neither do you."

Guy prepares for her anger, but she has reverted to Marian the Impenetrable, Marian the Stone-faced as she watches the letter burn. He looks to Allan for distraction but he is no longer with the dog, having escaped unnoticed sometime during their conversation.

"I only want to protect you, Marian" he says after a long pause, trying to ease his voice back to a normal volume. "This will soon be over. And then we will have Nottingham."

Her head snaps toward him. "We will _not _have Nottingham."

"Richard has suggested—"

"Richard has made Robin the new Sheriff of Nottingham and restored Locksley. _That _is one of the reasons that I have come to find you," she says. "_That _is one of the reasons that I was worried. I do not know what you think that you are here for, Guy, but it is not for Nottingham."

The feelings of betrayal overwhelm him—not just by Richard, but by God and destiny and justice. They are so great that Guy does not know what to say, or even where to look, He can only watch Marian as Marian watches him, her chest heaving after her outburst. Her eyes glitter with anger, yes, but also something less definable. As the seconds pass, the anger dims. She looks pained.

"That is not how I meant to tell you," she says softly. "But you understand now why I came here. You have to tell me what you know."

At that moment her sympathy grates on his nerves. She is speaking to him as though he were a disappointed child.

"Are you happy that it has gone to him?" he blurts out.

"What?"

"Are you happy?" he repeats.

Her struggle to find an answer is obvious. "I am sorry that you cannot have something that means so much to you."

That is a yes. "How political," he says darkly.

"Guy," she starts, but he does not want to hear anymore.

"There is food on the table and a bed upstairs. You should rest before you leave tomorrow," he says with as little emotion as possible, striding past her on his way to the door. He never imagined that this room could feel more claustrophobic.

"Leave?" she cries and then calls out for him to wait. But he is already shutting the door behind him and stalking into the night.

* * *

Next time on _Fallout_:

Angsty confessions!

Midnight sexiness!

Allan sleeps a lot!


	16. Chapter 16

**Title: **_Fallout _(16/?)  
**Rating:** NC-17 - That's right, this is definitely a Mature chapter, so be warned.  
**Characters:** Guy/Marian  
**Word Count:** 8600  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

**A/N: **Midnight sexiness! I keep my promises eventually and after a lot of dithering. (Spraining my ankle so I am trapped in my apartment seems to help as well.) They actually ended up being a lot nicer to one another than I expected, so I hope it works! As always, comments are loved and appreciated.

* * *

Marian does not go to sleep. She waits for Guy to come back, waits for what feels like hours without touching any of the bread or fruit that sits on the table before her. In her head, she rehearses what she is going to say, hoping that this time she will be able to keep control of her temper and explain herself properly. It was only because Guy had been quiet and strange—well, stranger than usual—that she had lost her footing and told him about Nottingham in the worst way possible. She waits until the fire is close to dying and her eyes are drooping from exhaustion. When the room is dark and he has still not returned, she gives in, stumbling up the unfamiliar stairs to the first bed that she can find. Now it is official; she will not let him know how glad she was to find him or how worried she had been.

She does not know how long she sleeps—an hour, maybe two? All she knows is that when her eyes pop open again, her stomach is grumbling loud enough to wake the dead. She and Allan had not found much to eat on the road; the food she had stashed away in Tyre did not survive even harshest rations and they had very little money. An image of the meal downstairs flickers in her mind like a stubborn guest who refuses to leave. She should not have refused to eat just to spite him.

Rolling onto her back, she stares at the cracked ceiling. The largest crack runs the length of the room, starting at her feet and branching out like a delta near her head. Small fissures creep up on it from the side like tiny ambushers. It makes her think of maps, of adventure, of the sense of freedom that came from finally escaping that wretched camp. Every morning she would wake up and realize that no one other than Allan knew where she was or what she was doing. She would climb on her horse, look up at the blue sky and let the sun shine down on her face as though it could scorch all the guilt and doubt from her body. Her mood would lift, her spirits would rise, and for a brief moment she would feel as though everything was as it should be.

And then she would have to stop, climb off the horse, and throw up.

Marian has a very good idea what that means, and her body hasn't seen fit to give her any proof otherwise. But when she thinks about it too much, her chest tightens until she can no longer breathe, so she forces herself to keep moving forward, to set a goal and work toward it. Finding Guy was a good goal. Now that she has achieved it, the thoughts and worries threaten to eat away at the fragile barrier between the present and the future.

Searching for distraction, she lets her head fall to the side, where she sees the dark, lumbering shapes of baggage and a spindly chair. Clothing hangs limply over its back, and a pair of boots lie sheltered within the cave of its legs. With a start she realizes that this must be Guy's room, Guy's bed. She had not even looked when she ran up the stairs, tore off her clothing and fell onto the sheets. Now she recognizes the slight masculine smell that lingered in the pillows as his. Leather and spice.

Bolting upright, she wonders what time it is. Swinging her legs around, she touches a tentative toe to the cool ground just as her stomach protests its empty state once again. Food. That's first on the agenda, right after she finds something to wear.

Other than the barest hint of silvery moonlight, the room is dark, which makes her search tricky. After more than a few knee-bumps and elbow-scrapes, she locates a long robe hanging on the wall. In the dim light, she is unable to tell its color, but the fabric flows easily between her fingers; it feels expensive. It does not seem like something Guy would wear, although how would she really know? Maybe, like Vasey, he has a fondness for silk pajamas.

The thought is accompanied by an image, and surprisingly, the image makes her giggle. Marian is still snorting softly when she throws the robe around her shoulders and cinches the belt at her waist. It is too large, causing her to constantly readjust it on her shoulders as she steps out of her bedroom and tiptoes down the stairs. Rogue firelight flickers at their base, casting fleeting shadows across the arch of her bare feet as she takes the final step.

Her eyes take a few moments to adjust, and then they follow the long slab of the table to where it ends before the roaring fire. Nothing has moved since earlier in the evening—not the food on the table, not the long shadows cast by the high-backed chairs, and not the slumbering black dog in the corner. And Guy—Guy has returned.

Marian ignores the relief in favor of the indignation at being left to wonder at his whereabouts. She studies him from her spot in the entryway. He is sitting low in the high-backed chair, one foot braced on the opposing seat as he stares into the fire with his fingers laced before him. All she can see of his face is the line of his jaw, an ear, and the curling hair at the back of his neck. It's grown wilder in the past month. And if the broken crockery scattered about the hearth is any indication, so has he. It appears that he has been amusing himself by throwing cups at the wall.

He has not noticed her; at the moment, she would like to keep it that way, even if it means taking her food upstairs and nibbling on it, rat-like, in the dark. Holding her robe at the waist, Marian tiptoes to the end of the table drags the loaf of bread and heavy knife toward her. It makes a rasping sound as it comes, and she sucks in a quick breath as she watches him for any sign of movement, praying that the popping of the combusting wood covers any of the small noises she is bound to make.

She cuts the end from a loaf then turns it around to remove the other. She has never liked the hard nubs at the end; growing up, her mother used to scold her for being wasteful, but it's a small extravagance that she's never been able to overcome. With a few more clean slices, she has her midnight meal.

"Marian, I know that you are there."

His voice startles her, and she drops the knife with a clatter. It wobbles on the edge of the table before falling to the ground. She winces at the noise, feeling as though she has lost a game.

Marian decides not to acknowledge her previous attempts at stealth. "Did you have a nice walk?" she asks, unable to stop a note of prim disapproval from coloring the question.

He does not respond, choosing instead to continue his scrutiny of the hearth. Marian longs to escape back upstairs, but going now feels like a retreat. Pulling out the nearest chair, she sits and takes a tentative nibble of her bread. Hunger overtakes her on the first bite. The next thing she knows, she's staring at a constellation of crumbs dusting the table and nothing else. After checking to make sure that Guy's attention is still elsewhere, she licks her finger and makes them disappear.

Thirsty now, she eyes the pitcher of water blocking Guy's elbow. "Can you please pass that?" she asks.

"Pass what?"

She does not like his attitude or his tone—grey and bored. "The only piece of crockery that still remains intact," she says, feeling waspish. "Or would you deny me water as you've refused me my opinion?"

He turns his head to study her—finally—but the shadows cloak his expression. She does not know if his eyes actually narrow, or if it is a trick of the wavering light. When he makes no move to do as she's asked, she pushes away from the table, walks over, and grabs the handle of the pitcher before realizing that there is no longer anything to pour liquid into. She sets it back on the table with a dull thud, hard enough that water sloshes from the top, wetting her fingers. She does not know how to deal with this Guy, this Guy who does not seem to even care that she is in the room. If anything, she is used to him being boorishly attentive.

Suddenly overcome by the childish need to make him react, she grabs the toe of his boot, and lifts. His eyes widen slightly as she pushes his feet off the chair. Guy watches with an impassive face as she makes a show of sitting, smoothing the fabric of the robe across her lap and crossing her feet at the ankle before giving him a serene smile.

His gaze drops to her shins, and she sees a flicker of interest ripple across his features. Confused, she looks down to find that that the bottom of her robe is caught beneath her knees. Furiously covering her legs, Marian hazards another look in his direction, expecting to meet a smirk.

But Guy does not look amused; he looks angry. "What are you wearing?" he asks gruffly, his mouth tightening in disapproval even as his eyes linger on her toes.

Bringing her knees up, she tucks her feet beneath the tent of the material. "Surely you have seen a robe before?"

He refuses to rise to her sarcasm. "Where did you get it?"

Marian studies the garment in question, which the firelight has revealed it to be an emerald green. "It was on the back of the bedchamber door. I assumed it was yours," she says tightly, even though she had assumed no such thing.

Guy looks slightly affronted. "I would not wear that."

"Then it was obviously left here. Who lived here before Baldrick?"

"I have no idea, nor do I care," he says flatly. "You should sleep. You'll have a long day of travel when the day breaks."

He still insists on pretending that she is going somewhere tomorrow, does he? Marian drops her knees and leans forward. She did not mean to resurrect this argument in the dead of night, but now that he has brought it up, she will not let it go. "I am not going anywhere until you tell me what you know."

"And I will tell you what I know when you tell me how you earned Richard's permission to leave the camp," he retorts, raising his eyebrows in a way that suggests he knows how doubtful this trade is.

Marian falls back in her seat, realizing that they are at an impasse. She studies the insufferable man who will be her husband if they ever make it out of this tangled mess. She has become used to Guy's rigid mannerisms; he never slumps, and he rarely leans, especially not around her. But now she watches his head fall as he sinks down in his chair and brings a hand up to worry his brow. She has never thought of Guy as particularly old or particularly young, but now he looks like he has aged ten years in a single day. It unnerves her, makes her feel guilty for where she has brought them.

"Locksley is not the only manor," she reminds him softly. "Nottingham is not the only shire."

Her words only earn her a dark look. "I know that."

"Perhaps . . .," she starts but then stops and licks her lips. When she finds her voice, she is shocked to hear it waver. "Perhaps this is a good thing."

He rubs his forehead harder. "A good thing," he mutters, soft enough that Marian wonders if she was even supposed to hear it. It is a good thing for the people of Nottingham, she thinks, but that is not something that she can tell him. And in all honesty, she does not know if she could deal seeing Robin day in and day out, not after what she has done and not as Guy's wife.

"Perhaps it will be a good thing for us to have a fresh start somewhere else," she says slowly, hugging her knees. She is surprised to feel how hard her heart is pounding, to feel how her breath sticks in her throat.

His hand stills over his eyes and then drops. She meets his gaze without flinching as she waits to see if he will acknowledge the dizzying amount of life implied in those words.

When he doesn't say anything, she stumbles on. "There is a lot of . . . history . . . in Nottingham."

His gaze continues to hold hers, and for a moment his eyes lighten. She is reminded of the day Prince John's men surrounded Nottingham, the way he looked at her when she told him that she would stay. But then he turns away.

"It is not that simple," he says as though she is a halfwit. "There are . . . obligations."

Marian feels her cheeks start to burn—she feels as though she walked out on a limb only to have it snap beneath her feet. "You are not the only person who has had to readjust their vision of the future," she says stiffly, willing to say anything in order to take back all the ground that she's just given.

He rears back, his face contorting in anger. "Of course," he says. "Tell me, when was the happy day to be?"

Confusion replaces the lingering hurt. "What?"

"When were you to marry Hood?"

"That is not what I meant."

"I want to know."

"Guy, stop it," Marian says, beginning to feel uneasy. She had not even been thinking of Robin when she said that. She has been trying not to think of him at all.

"You told me you would stay. You said that you would."

"I know! And I meant it!"

"As another man's wife?" he scoffs, shaking his head. "No, Marian, tell me how long you were going to wait before running off to marry the outlaw."

He will not give up. Fine. If he wants answers, she will give him answers. "We were to marry when the King returned."

But Guy does not rage. He laughs, and it's loud and rich and long. He laughs long enough that the dog raises its black head and glares at him through yellow eyes.

"I do not see what is so funny," she snaps when he has finally stopped.

"I do not think that you ever intended to marry Hood."

"We were engaged," she insists, not caring if it fans the flames. "We knew we could not be happy until the people of Nottingham were free from harm. And he was legally an outlaw."

"So? It seems to me that you would have enjoyed being an outlaw's wife. If you wanted to marry him, you would have done it. You have never cared about rules before."

"You have no idea what you are talking about!"

He shifts forward with a smirk, resting his elbows on his knees. If she did not want to smack him, she might be relieved to see a spark of emotion in his eyes, pigheaded though it is. He is too close. She scoots back in her chair, causing the shoulder of her robe to slip down. Angrily, she tugs it back up.

"Do I not?" he says. "I know that when you decided to marry _me_, for all your reasons, you showed up in the middle of the night half-dressed."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I wanted to get it over with," she snaps, hoping that will make him retreat, but he just continues to give an infuriating half-smile. He is near enough that he could reach out and touch her legs; if he tries, she swears that she will kick him in the face.

Luckily for him, he doesn't try. He just tilts his head to the side as though he is studying a particularly intricate design. She looks to the fire to escape his gaze. It is true that she never dreamt of a wedding day or children or a home, but that was just because there was too much to do, too much to fix. The future was a luxury. But then she remembers the night after Robin's proposal, when her hand was no longer in his and the congratulations had all been said. She had lain awake wondering why her chest was so tight, why she felt the same way she did the night after she agreed to marry Guy. No matter how often she repeated "Marian of Locksley," hoping that it would suddenly feel familiar and right, it never had.

"Perhaps I do not want to marry anyone," she says after a long silence, and the minute it passes through her lips, she feels like she's confessed her darkest secret. But it is true, she realizes. It has always been true.

Guy leans back, his expression veiled, and she realizes how that must have sounded. Why does she always blunder into insults with him?

"But I will marry you," she concedes quickly, studying the fingers which are still wrapped around her knees. "I have promised."

He snorts and looks away. "I am truly blessed," he says bitterly. "You would make a better duck than a nun."

It is said with such an air of disgruntlement that Marian wants to smile; she can feel it tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Guy frowns. "It is not a compliment, Marian."

"Who said that I desired to be a nun?"

"There is little other option," he says, and then leans back until head clunks against the chair. His eyes are closed, his throat exposed and showing the dark stubble that dots his neck.

"Society allows me little other option," she says. "But like I said, it does not matter now. We have already . . . That is to say. . . There are those who would consider us married already."

Her breath catches. It is the first time that she has acknowledged what has passed between them, and she hates how it makes her stutter. She has always prided herself on her ability to keep her composure under any circumstances, and yet here she is rattled by everyday intimacies that other women seem to take in stride.

She steals a glance at Guy. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his eyes are darkened by an emotion that she cannot define. "Nothing is ever certain where you are concerned, Marian."

Again, she wants to smile; she ducks her head to hide it, but it is too late.

"Also not a compliment," he adds, but for a brief moment Marian thinks she hears a note of grudging humor. A glow of pleasure propels her to say something that she's never told anyone before.

"I had a friend," she shares, "a friend who died. She was wonderful and then she married a cruel man and died."

At first Guy just stares at her, blinking. He clears his throat, but when he speaks his horror is plain. "You think me cruel?"

It's on the tip of her tongue to say no, but then she thinks of all the scars: the ridge of tissue along her side, the thin white hairline on her forearm, the mark from her knife that sits like an eye in the center of her palm. She does not mind them—in fact sometimes she is proud of them—but they are a grisly testament to their shared history.

"I think that we have both been blind," she says. "And that has made us cruel."

Guy opens his mouth as though to say something, but then shuts it, turning to contemplate the fire. Marian lets the silence fall. The dog shuffles to its feet and circles the table, putting its nose to the ground as though searching for any stray morsels of food. She watches its progress, enjoying the fire's warmth on her toes, which refuse to stay hidden beneath the robe's hem.

"They are not all like that," Guy says suddenly.

"What are not all like that?"

He looks at her as though she is missing a crucial piece of her brain. "Marriages."

"I have not seen many happy ones."

"My parents were happy," he says, and then shifts in his chair as though uncomfortable with the subject.

Apparently that is all the information he wants to give her. Back when Guy had first started showing up at Knighton with disturbing regularity, he had spoken often of his mother and father, but she had rarely listened, too consumed with protecting her father from the Sheriff and herself from Guy's obvious designs. But now she finds that she is curious.

"You used to speak of your parents often," she prods, bringing her knees down.

"I used to think that you wanted to listen."

She moves forward in her chair. "I want to listen now," she insists.

At first Marian thinks that he is refusing her request. Leaning his head back, he looks at the ceiling instead of her. His eyes follow the ripple of light and shadow. He is silent long enough that when he speaks, she jumps.

"They loved each other very much," he says, his voice gruff. "I do not know if they still loved each other after everything was taken away. They had found us places—it didn't matter where. I was sent to Vasey's estate."

The name still has the power to make Marian tense, but she forces herself to relax. They do not need to be drawn into another argument over a dead man.

"What happened to them?" she asks.

"They were imprisoned for a time."

"And after?"

Guy gives a jerk of his shoulders that Marian supposes must be a shrug. "I do not know. I met a distant cousin at one of Vasey's functions, who told me they died a few years before I came to Nottingham."

Marian watches him for a sign of emotion, but his face is impassive. Her mother had died in childbirth, along with her new baby brother, but she had always had her father and a few distant aunts and cousins. They had stopped visiting when Edward was ousted from Nottingham.

"I am sorry," she tells Guy now, surprised to find her voice thick with emotion.

Guy lowers his head. "It is the past," he says sharply, but his gaze softens when it touches her face. "Your friend. How did she die?"

"In childbirth. As did my mother."

He says nothing, much to Marian's dismay. The simple confession breaks down the tenuous barrier between her and the concerns that she has exiled for later. They flood her thoughts. Three months. At the most she has three months before she is no longer able to hide her condition from Guy or anyone else. If she returns to the convent and Guy is detained, there will be questions and shame. She tells herself that she does not care what people think, but deep down she knows that this will be harder than losing your hair for a few pieces of bread. And then there is the endless waiting. If she must wait and wonder and watch her stomach grow, she will go mad. She cannot go back; she can't.

"Guy," she says, moving forward quickly enough that his eyes widen in surprise as he looks down at her. She speaks feverishly. "I do not want to go to the convent. I want to stay."

His lips press together in consternation. "Marian—,"

"Please," she says. "I will not get in the way."

Guy gives a weary laugh. "You know that is not true."

"I can help!" she insists, growing angry when he fails to respond. "_Half _of Robin's plans were of my devising."

His face darkens. "You are not helping your case."

She pulls her chair closer to his, frustrated at herself for losing control, for saying things that she shouldn't. Placing a hand on his knee, she spreads her fingers out to cover it. "Please," she repeats. "I cannot spend another second waiting and doing nothing. I hated the camp, and I will hate the convent."

Guy's gaze drops to where her thumb clutches the inside of his leg. He stares at it, and Marian takes the opportunity to lean forward more. In doing so, the shoulder of her robe slips down again. Her fingers are on the material to fix it when she catches Guy's eyes on the exposed skin. He clears his throat and then looks away, but not before she sees the flare of interest. A tiny thrill courses through her body; the balance of power is tilting in her favor. Stepping between his knees, she puts one hand on his shoulder and the other over his heart. It beats heavy against her palm. Guy says nothing, only watches her with hooded eyes and a detached expression.

"Let me stay," she coaxes. His hands come up to span her waist, and she feels a sense of triumph, although she would feel more if he would move to kiss her. She lowers her lips, expecting him to meet her halfway, but his fingers only tighten at her hips. Confused, she pulls back.

"It is late. You should go to bed," he says without much inflection, and she realizes that the hands she thought were preparing for an embrace are restraining her.

"I don't want to go to bed," Marian snaps, more from surprise than anger, as she tugs her robe up and stands. "Not if it means that I am leaving in the morning."

"Marian, you cannot stay here." For once his tone is more of a resigned statement than an order.

"Why?" she challenges. "After everything, why do you think me incompetent?"

"It is not a matter of competence! It is a matter of…," he makes a frustrated sound and cuts himself off, taking a hand from her waist and rubbing his eyes.

She is getting nowhere. For a brief second she wonders if she should tell him that she thinks that she is with child. If she has learned anything it's that Guy plays by the rules until you push him out of the game; he will not want to risk a scandal. But then there is Guy's ridiculous obsession with protecting her; add a child to that and he will clip her wings to the root.

"Do you want me to beg?" she says suddenly, already feeling the weight of stone walls and punishing silence that the convent would bring. She will not be able to do anything if she is forced to leave. She will say anything to stay.

He blinks. "I do not--,"

"Please. Do not make me go anywhere. I beg of you."

Guy looks at her, his expression a mix of confusion and surprise. She feels the threat of tears, a common affliction of late. If it happens again—now—she will tear her eyes out. Lifting her chin, she tries to keep what pride she has left.

"What is the matter?" he asks, leaning forward.

He is not reacting the way that she wants him to react. The frustration provokes the tears that have been building to spill. Knocking his hands away, she faces the fire and swipes at her cheeks, embarrassment taking the place of desperation.

"Nothing. I will leave you to your thoughts," she says and then turns to go back upstairs.

"Wait," Guy barks, and then stands to grab her arm. "Tell me what is wrong."

"I do not want to leave. I told you."

Guy shakes his head. "There is more," he insists and tugs her toward his chest.

"I do not need to be comforted like a child," she snaps, but her body has other ideas. It lets itself be drawn into an embrace. Once she is there, she buries her head in his shoulder and cries—because she is a long way from a home that doesn't feel like home anymore, because she has betrayed everyone she has ever loved for reasons that now seem inconsequential, and because she no longer has control of anything, not even her own body.

Guy's hands are light against her back; they hold her tentatively, moving every so often to smooth her hair. She is breathing hard enough to get mouthfuls of shirt; she turns her head toward his neck. The stubble is rough against her forehead. He smells . . . warm. Solid. The feel of his arms around hers are more comforting than she would have ever expected.

Then again, they were the last time he held her like this. She waits for him to ruin it, but his chin stays on her head. She watches the rise and fall of her fingers on his chest, listening to his easy breathing and the crackle of the dying fire. The circle of light around them is slowly shrinking.

She raises her chin and meets his eyes. Guy's thumb comes up to brush away a tear that still lingers on her cheek. When it slides to trace her bottom lip, Marian sucks in a breath. He cups the back of her neck and brings his head down for a kiss. Her small moue of surprise is muffled beneath his lips, and she tastes salt between them. She starts to push him away out of habit, but then stops; this is what she wanted. It feels nice. It feels like something she can lose herself in, and for once—for once—she wants that to be enough. She kisses back, tilting her head and parting her lips to deepen the embrace. Her chest is pressed up against his, and the silk between them rubs her skin every time they shift.

He pulls back with a curse. "You should—,"

"Do not tell me to go to bed again," she says. "I do not feel like sleeping."

He opens his mouth to protest but she kisses him again, putting her hands on his shoulders. She lifts her heels for better leverage just as his hands slide down her back. They do not stop at her waist. Before she can react he grips the back of her thighs and lifts her onto the end of the table, dropping her so quickly that her tailbone knocks against the heavy wood. She barely has time to organize her thoughts before he steps between her legs and leans forward, his hands on her knees.

"Guy!" Marian cries, startled. Her robe has slid up to her thighs; his palms are hot and rough against her bare skin.

"_This_," he snaps and then gestures between them, "won't change anything."

"You kissed me first!"

His thumbs brush the sides of her knees. "There was a deal on the table before that," he says tightly. "This one was better cloaked."

Marian tries to shove down the robe, but his hands are in the way. Does he know where they are? she thinks wildly. He is not acting like he does; his gaze remains fixed.

"There was no _deal_," she says, embarrassed anew. She covers his hands with her own, letting their fingers tangle to bring at least the illusion of control. "You are reading too much into--,"

Guy interrupts. "I am seeing clearly, for once. You speak of cold marriages, but it is you who would twist anything between us until there is nothing left. I have no more patience for games. Not now."

His eyes flick over her face as they always do when he is trying to read her. Here it comes, she thinks, and braces herself for the blame. If she is being honest, she has been waiting for it, wanting it. If he would just put it on the table, she can release some of the guilt that has weighed heavily in her stomach ever since her naïve planning had been ripped to shreds like a child's doll.

But he does not say anything more, just watches her as the earlier reserve begins to overtake his features once again. She has taken so much from him in the name of giving to others; her blindness and arrogance seems inconceivable now. Raising a hand, she tries to touch his cheek. He flinches.

She pulls back, stung. "It was not a game," she says softly, studying the rejected fingers. "I wanted to. . ."

"Wanted to what?" he asks, and his tone is once again flat. He is losing patience.

She closes her eyes and fights the urge to run. Why is it that the simplest things are always the most difficult to say?"I wanted to kiss you."

"So you could get your way."

"Partly," she admits.

Her honesty unnerves him; he blinks a few times before he catches himself. "And if I told you that I couldn't promise you anything?"

Her pride is screaming at her to make demands, but for once she tells it to be quiet. "Then I would be hurt," she says, and then prays that her voice remains steady for the next confession. "But I would still want you to kiss me."

Marian waits for his reaction, and when it comes, it is not what she expected. He leans forward, a calculating glint in his eye, and begins to slide his hands further up her legs. At first she is annoyed—he knew where they were—but that feeling is soon replaced by an urgent curiosity about how his palms will feel against the skin of her upper thigh. Every so often a thumb presses into the flesh, and she has to work to keep herself from emitting small gasps of surprise.

Guy is watching her face. He is testing her, Marian realizes, and if the doubtful tilt of his head is any indication, he expects to be stopped. When he isn't, puzzlement threatens o overtake the skepticism clouding his eyes, and Marian is besieged by the familiar thrill that comes from defying expectations.

His fingers reach the hem of the robe, catch it, and take it with them. Warmth from the fire hits the newly exposed skin in a rush. She grabs the edge of the table to steady herself as he dips his head and leans in closer. His lips brush hers, and despite the fact that this is what she has told him she wants—and she does want it, she does—she pulls back slightly.

She experiences a moment of panic; he will think her hesitation a sign of falseness, when in reality she was just to loath to be distracted from the pleasure that is zinging in circles beneath her skin. But Guy doesn't pull back and accuse her of anything; instead he changes course, moving his lips to kiss her cheek, then the spot below her ear, then the soft dip where her shoulder meets her neck. When one of his hands leaves her legs she lets out a sharp hiss of disappointment that she quickly sucks back in when the hand moves to cover her breast. His thumb presses against the point of her nipple through the silk, and then starts to move back and forth over it. He steps closer, until she can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against her. Remembering how quickly the last time turned from pleasure to pain, she pushes against his chest until he steps back.

The low light fails to hide Guy's irritation. His brow dips as he looks at her. Marian can only imagine the scene she makes. Her skin is flushed, her robe askew, and her hair mussed. She tries to smooth the latter into some semblance of order and then concentrates on rearranging the fabric over her legs. When she looks up she expects to deal with his anger—and her own disappoint, because she didn't really want it to stop, not really—but it is no longer there. He is smirking.

"I think I believe you," he says, his eyes flicking her over from head to toe.

Caught off guard, Marian can only say, "Believe me how?"

"I believe that you want me to kiss you." His gaze lowers to her lips and then slides to her chest. "Among other things."

Marian stares at him, angry. She will stick her head in the fire before she admits to anything more than the kissing. And now that she is looking at him, she hates that he does not seem nearly as affected by their recent . . . activities. . . as she is. She stands up.

Guy catches her arm as though he expects her to run off. "Marian," he says, and while his voice still holds irritation, it also carries a note of apology. If he is going to say more, he stops when he sees how she is looking at him.

She continues to give him a close-lipped smile. Heart pounding, she lets her fingers go to his shoulders and then trail down his chest to the hem of his shirt. Feeling more daring than she ever did as the Nightwatchman, she slides her hands beneath the rough fabric of his grey shirt and starts to nudge it upward. She sneaks a glance at his face; the former cockiness has disappeared, replaced by a look that can only be described as fearful wonderment. Making sure that her thumbs are in constant contact with his skin, she pushes the shirt up over the planes of his abdomen, over his ribs, over his nipples. When it reaches his shoulders he tugs it the rest of the way off and throws it to the side before turning back to look at her with an expression that is both expectant and challenging.

He quirks an eyebrow, an eyebrow that asks what's next, but Marian can see the way his skin flexes beneath her fingers. She hears how his breath catches every time her fingers brush lower than his chest. That is something that Marian has always liked about Guy, even when she did not like him. He reacts when she touches him; it makes her feel powerful in a way that her interactions with Robin never did.

If Guy wants to turn this into a contest, she will win.

Sliding her hands up to rest on his shoulders, she braces her weight and lifts her lips as though to kiss him, feeling a sense of triumph when he immediately lowers his own. At the last minute she veers to the side and goes for a stubbled patch of his neck instead. The skin is salty beneath her lips. When he doesn't react as much as she would like, she adds tongue. And teeth.

He sucks in a breath and then curses. Frightened that she has gone too far, Marian pulls back. Before she can register whether his eyes are angry or pleased, he digs his fingers into the flesh of her hips lifts her up. Instinctively, Marian wraps her arms and legs around his body, not realizing that he is heading for the chair until he has sat down and hauled her onto his lap.

He grabs her waist and tugs her forward until her body is pressed flat against him, her legs sprawled on either side. She is wearing nothing beneath the robe, a fact that she knew but didn't really _know _until now, when she can feel his hardness pressing against her bare sex, only the leather of his trousers separating them. She squirms to put some distance between them, but he holds her still.

"It's fine, Marian," Guy breathes into her hair. "Just relax."

Pulling back, she tries to meet his eyes but only makes it to his lips.

"Look at me," he insists, and when she is finally able to obey, it is less embarrassing than she feared, although her back is still stiff.

"You can bite me again if you'd like," he says wryly.

Her cheeks go hot. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize," he interrupts gruffly, and then nudges his hips upward so she can tell just how much he liked it. He leans forward and traps her lips in another kiss before she can decide how to react to the ache of pleasure that his movement set off between her legs. He brings a hand up to her shoulder, which is bare. The robe has fallen halfway down her arm. He pulls it the rest of the way down before she can tug it back up, and then leaves her lips to trail kisses down her neck and chest.

When his mouth closes around her nipple she gasps. Her fingers tangle in his hair, and she moves her hips forward. There is a sensitive spot between her legs that responds every time it hits the ridge of his arousal. She moves again, and the pleasure of that combined with the sensations of his tongue on her breast makes her moan.

She wants to clap a hand over her mouth. Is she winning or is she losing? She can't tell anymore. When he lifts his head she lowers her own, kissing his chest in an effort to make him feel the same loss of control. His heart pounds against her cheek, but he doesn't make any noise. She runs her fingers down his chest, noticing that his breath quickens the closer they get to the ties of his trousers. She trails light touches along the line where skin meets leather, waiting for the burst of daring that will help her break that last barrier. It doesn't come.

Together they watch her fingers dance at the edges. Suddenly, Guy grabs her hand and moves it down. For a few seconds she feels the heat of him pulsing against her palm before she wrests her hand away, startled.

"You are a tease, Marian," Guy says, his face full of bemused humor.

"I am not," she says, disgruntled.

He raises his eyebrows. "Scared?"

"No!"

"Then touch me."

Marian's mind races; she thinks that she has just been manipulated. From the supercilious way Guy's lips quirk, he thinks so too. Reaching between them, she holds her breath, grabs one end of his trouser tie, and pulls. The triumphant expression on Guy's face is replaced by surprise. Marian feels a surge of victory until she realizes that she has just suggested that they move on to the part of this that is much less fun.

Guy's fingers tangle with hers as he finishes untying the laces and then lifts his hips to ease his trousers down his thighs. His hand moves between them as he tries to urge her down. Her legs tense as she holds herself away.

"It won't hurt," he says, his eyes on her face, frowning when she fails to relax. "I'm sorry, Marian."

At first she doesn't understand—is he apologizing for it not hurting?—but then she realizes that it is an apology for the last time.

"I wish that I had not . . . ," he says and then stops and swallows. "It will be better. Just trust me."

She licks her lips; trust has never been their strong suit. Still, when he pulls her forward again, she does not resist, not even when he's thrusting up inside her.

There's a momentary discomfort. _Liar_, she thinks, but that is soon washed away when she gets the groan that she wanted. And truthfully it does not feel like it did the last time. She feels stretched and strange, but it does not hurt. He bumps his hips up, hitting a spot that is so deep that she gasps and digs her nails into his shoulders.

"Wait," she says, and her voice sounds so breathy that she barely recognizes it as her own. She tries to put into words what she wants, but they will not come. She wants to know what to do; she wants to not feel like a passenger.

Guy is watching her lips, his eyes half-closed and hooded as his hands wander up and down her back. She shifts forward, enjoying the way it makes his breath catch. His fingers dig into her hips as he makes her repeat the motion, and she lets herself be guided. With every other downward stroke, the point of aching pleasure hits his flesh. The pressure builds, but every time it feels like it might be close to breaking, he guides her away from her mark and it returns to the dull tingle.

He is gripping her waist hard, so hard that Marian wonders if tomorrow will bring bruises. Grabbing his hands, she drags them up to cover her breasts so she can be free to move on her own. This time when she shifts downward, she hits it right. She cries out.

Guy's thumbs tease her nipples before he leans forward and kisses her neck. She feels the scrape of teeth, and no longer regrets biting him. It is nice.

"I knew it," Guy says into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "I knew that there is something between us."

"Guy," she starts, but if there was ever anything to follow that, it was lost the second after it was conceived. Right now . . . right now when he is inside her and his hands feel so wonderful against her skin, Marian believes it.

"Ride me," he says, nipping her neck again, and while the words shock her enough to make her lose her rhythm, they make the ache burn even hotter.

"Harder," he orders just as she surges forward. The hard knot of pleasure crests and then explodes. Grabbing his biceps, she rests her forehead on his shoulder, her chest heaving as she tries to make sense of what just happened. He was not lying; this was much better than last time.

Guy is still moving beneath her, and every upward thrust sets off a series of aftershocks that make her feel pockets of warmth in the strangest places, like the top of her thighs and the small of her back. The ghosts of arousal are stirring, taking shape once again. But then he stops.

"We shouldn't have started this," he says.

Marian pulls back and looks down at him, confused. He is breathing heavily, his eyes linger on her breasts rather than her face, and yet he wants to stop.

"What is wrong?" she asks, and then remembers what he said the last time about it being a mistake and the possibility of children. "It doesn't matter," she tells him, still dazed and reveling in the unfamiliar glow. After all, she is unlikely to become more pregnant.

"Marian--,"

"It doesn't matter," she insists, and then regrets it immediately. His brow creases as he searches her face.

"Why does it not matter?"

She does not want him to know now; that will only make the real more real. He is destroying her tiny bubble of respite. "Because we will be married soon," she says, hoping that it sounds optimistic instead of a weak excuse.

"It is not that--," he starts, but then stops when she rocks her hips forward. When he looks like he wants to say something else, she does it again and again until he stops saying anything. Grabbing her hips, he jerks them forward hard and groans into her neck as she feels a rush of warmth between her legs. His head falls back, exposing the column of his throat. Her limbs feel heavy and languid, and she lets herself fall against his chest, her head on his shoulder. She waits for his questions, but they don't come. Slowly, she starts to relax.

Turning her head, Marian studies his profile. His eyes are closed, the lashes dark against his cheek. Before she knows what she is doing, she lifts a finger and traces the tiny scar by his eye. It's on the tip of her tongue to ask him how he got it, before she remembers that it involved her punching him at the altar. She pulls her hand back; what they were and what they are seem like two halves that don't fit, and she's not sure that she likes either of them.

Pushing herself up, she reorders her robe, which is tangled at her waist. The world is coming back now—this was stupid and solved nothing. It may have even complicated things.

"Guy," she says, and repeats it until he raises his head and looks at her warily. She opens her mouth to tell him again how she does not want to leave, but stops when she sees how he is steeling himself for that very request. She does not want to ruin the truce, not yet.

"You should sleep," she says.

His eyes widen at the unexpected change of course. "You are in my bed."

At first she thinks that he is making a joke, but no—he is being serious.

"Under the circumstances, I think that we can share it."

The fire is dying, making it difficult to gauge his expression.

"I don't know if that is safe," he says, and she thinks his lips curve into a small smile.

"What does that mean?" Marian asks, confused.

"Nothing." He rubs his eyes. "I need to think. I do not think straight when you are here."

"That is not my fault," she says and stiffens. Truth be told, he is thinking straighter than she would like and she is not thinking at all. She climbs off of his lap, turning away as he reties his trousers. When he does not say anything more, she bids him a goodnight, but instead of sounding brisk and terse, it comes out questioning and confused. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and adds, "I will see you in the morning."

"Wait," Guy says and stands. He takes her hand and runs his thumb over the knuckles, his face solemn. "I am . . . glad that you are out of the camp. I am glad that you are safe."

"I meant what I promised," she says softly. "I stayed until I had reason not to."

"I know."

Marian did not realize how much she wanted to hear those two words until he said them. She looks down at their hands, and then up at his face. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but at the last minute he just sighs.

"I will come up. Later."

She wanted to hear those words as well; nothing has gone as planned or expected. It is enough to make her eager to retreat to the solitude of her own thoughts. After giving him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, she flees upstairs.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title: **_Fallout _(17/?)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Characters:** Guy/Marian  
**Word Count:** 7500  
**Warning:** Contains spoilers if you haven't finished season two. AU from 2x13.  
**Disclaimer:** _Robin Hood_ is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

**A/N: **I can't believe that it has taken me over two months to update. Writing this chapter really stressed me out, so I am sorry if it is bad. I wish that I could be more coherent, but it is 3AM and around 10PM I ate an entire plate of mini-pastries from my landlady because I am leaving on vacation tomorrow and didn't want her to come in to fix my wall and see that they went stale and think me a horrible person who is ungrateful for tiny pastries. But now I think that I am on the wrong end of a sugar high.

As always, comments make me very happy, even if they just say hello.

***

After Marian is gone, Guy tries to resume his staring contest with the fire, but he is too keyed up to remain seated. He falls into a restless pace, kicking away shattered pieces of clay as he circles the table. The pitcher of water stands like a lost soldier at the edge nearest the fire. He had saved it to throw later, when the need for a big smash was the most overwhelming. And now the need for a smash is overwhelming.

After finding a firm grip on the pitcher's handle, he hurls it toward the wall, relishing the way it feeds the white-hot knot of anger. How is it that Nottingham will go to _him_, the man who ran away to the forest—with his _servant_—and thwarted every attempt at genuine order?

An image of the outlaw lounging in the Great Hall's high-backed chair flashes through Guy's mind, and he has to sit down to keep the wave of jealousy from knocking him over. Hood will not even sit in it properly; he will hang a knee over the arm or squat on his heels like an arrogant squirrel. Peasants will be richer than nobles. The treasury and larders will be chaos. The outlaw will have everything, and what will Guy have? Other than some forgotten arsehole of an estate and a woman who he can't figure out half of the time.

Guy rubs his eyes and stares at the ceiling, wondering if she is finally sleeping. Marian. That woman is a force of nature; every meeting with her leaves him angrier, happier, or more confused, and sometimes all three. Is it his imagination, or is she acting strangely, cycling through versions of herself faster than he can keep up? Tonight he saw them all—frosty Marian, conciliatory Marian, manipulating Marian, priggish Marian, and then, the most baffling of all, passionate Marian. Once again, he is left trying to figure out her game; he _told _her that it would not change anything and he meant it, although it almost seems shameful to waste whatever goodwill has made her so . . . welcoming. The boredom here is stultifying, and bedding Marian is certainly not boring. What harm is there in letting her stay a few more days? It seems like Baldrick will never return, and if he does Guy can just say that . . .

Fuck. This is what she wanted, Guy thinks, and kicks at the dying fire with the toe of his boot until it sparks back to life. The _harm _in letting her stay a few more days is that she will dig and dig and dig until he ends up admitting what he has been ordered here to do. And then her lips will tighten and she will give him thelook_, _the one that is disgusted and disappointed and scornful all at once. It has power, that look; it makes his heart flinch. In the past he had been able to bury the guilt beneath duty and responsibility as soon as she was out of sight—she didn't know what it was like to have to carve a place for yourself out in the world with nothing but your willingness to compromise yourself—but what do you do when you feel the same disgust? For that's what the real problem is now, isn't it?

He does not want to kill the Abbess of Chelles. Still. He had thought that his distaste stemmed only from shock and that, like all the other times, it would pass. He had swallowed every new low that Vasey cared to set, a mastery of conscience that brought him shame at first, but later inspired pride. And yet his initial revulsion has not abated, and the only clear thought is one that irritates him with its simplicity. He does not want to do this. He does not want to pander to another man's whims in the hopes that one day he will be tossed the scraps of a title while others are showered in gifts for merely bending the king's ear. He does not want to add more sins for only the promise of a hazy reward. It is such a plain word, _want_, and yet he stumbles over it again and again every time he tries to formulate his next step.

It does not help that all the signs are telling him to get out now, that this is a mission that is doomed to fail. Guy has always hated omens and anything else that diverted fools from their course. Where lesser men would stop at the first wisp of a challenge, Guy made a point of forging ahead. For example, there were times when Guy doubted Vasey's promises of wealth and position, times when he would look up to find the Sheriff studying him with a crooked smile, as though amused by a secret joke. Guy often wondered if the day that Vasey reached the pinnacle of power was the day that Guy would find a knife in his back. Still, he pressed forward; there was no point in worrying about that until the time came. There were also times that Guy saw the cracks in Marian's game—he can admit that now—but thinking about them just meant that he would never have her, and that was not a future he was willing to contemplate. But perhaps he should have contemplated it. Perhaps he should have contemplated everything all along.

Richard is not to be trusted; that fact needs no further contemplation. The truth is that he will be lucky to get anything other than a swift execution. But what else is there to do now? He has no resources, he has no connections, and the man he had spent his life serving is dead by his own hand. He would laugh if it were anyone else; in fact he probably had laughed at the sight of someone so humbled.

A swirling headache swells up behind his forehead, causing Guy to lean back and close his eyes. Soon he is back in the dream, the one where forests are tents and tents are forests and there is nothing but blood, blood that covers his hands and Marian's dress and anything that he has ever touched. His feet are heavy; there are people, grey-skinned children, clinging to his ankles. He raises his head to find Hood before him, squatting in Vasey's chair. Guy can only watch as he springs up and pulls out his bow, notches an arrow. He waits for the slice of pain, but all he hears is a loud clap, and then he is falling, falling . . .

Guy jerks upright in his seat and blinks as he stares at the swinging door. His hands are already scrabbling for his weapon by the time his bleary eyes tell him that it is just Ahmad, who has arrived with a tray of food. All that remains of the fire is ash, and the walls are lightened by the early morning. How long has he been asleep? A grunt swims up from beneath the chair, and he looks down to find the dog curled at his legs, it's heavy head resting on the toe of his boot.

After kicking the dog's head away, he watches Ahmad. The boy's hands are piled high with food; he has brought extra today, and Guy is positive that if he were to look outside he would find that Marian and Allan's horses have already been put away. This boy is the perfect servant: adaptable, eager, and silent. He has been tiptoeing around Guy ever since yesterday, and now his gaze bounces between Guy and the broken dishware as though Guy were the crazy one, as though he were the one who continued to stay in this rotten hole and smile when there was an entire trunk of money just sitting upstairs. . . .Guy lurches out of his chair so quickly that Ahmad drops his bundle on the table, startled. He ducks out of the way just as Guy stalks up the stairs to the dark paneled door of Baldrick's room. He kicks it open and enters before his eyes have even had time to adjust to the gloom, passing the tower of bird cages. When he reaches the foot of the bed, Allan bolts upright.

"Get your own strawberry! The blue one's mine," he yells, his hair wild.

There are very few things that Allan says that Guy feels deserve to be dignified with a response, and that one was the perfect example. Crouching down, he peers beneath the bed, feels for the sharp corner of the chest, and then drags it out in a cloud of dust.

"Am I still dreaming or are you crawling around on the floor?" Allan asks from above. Allan blinks, rubs his eyes, and then frowns at the birds in the corner, which are trilling and thwapping their wings against the wooden bars. "I'm not being funny; I am going to strangle some birds today. One more coo and I'll—"

"Be quiet, Allan, or I will strangle you," Guy orders, his fingers feeling along the engraved lid. He has a crazy fear that he will open it to find that it is empty, that yesterday's gold is gone.

Allan is still talking. "That's a bit of an overreaction, isn't it? You're the one who barged in here and woke me up in the middle of a nice dream about strawberries. They were a little funny colored, alright, but—Holy Mother of Christ, that's shiny!"

Guy has torn off the lid. It's still there, all of it, and Guy allows the small pinpoint of hope to swell as his mind skips forward. There is enough here for them to live on for years, and live well. If Richard's plan fails, he will be forced to return to England, and if it succeeds, the fighting will be enough of a distraction to prevent him from pursuing them to the edges of Crusader influence. Or, God willing, Richard will die here and Prince John will take the throne knowing nothing of how Vasey died. Guy's name was on the Pact of Nottingham . . . Vasey had grudgingly introduced him. Perhaps he could concoct some story, some fabrication of a plan gone awry that would at least win him enough favor to find something small, some payment for his previous service. . .

It is improbable, but not impossible. And after days of sitting in this stultifying pattern of waiting, the promise of action is exhilarating. But they will need to be careful. They will need help.

Guy looks up to find Allan staring at the contents of the chest with a dreamy expression.

"How much do you figure is there?" he asks.

"Enough."

"Enough for what?" Allan asks.

Guy grabs a handful of the coins. "Listen," he says. "I will give you this now for accompanying Marian here."

"That's not…," Allan says and then hesitates. "Well, yeah, alright, I'll take it. It was a little difficult at times, what with all the—"

Guy cuts him off. "But I will double it if you leave with us today."

Allan's eyebrows raise in surprise, but his gaze strays to the array of treasure before him. Encouraged, Guy scoops up another handful with his spare hand so that Allan can see what there is to gain.

Suddenly, Allan frowns. "We just got here, and Marian's not the most pleasant traveling companion, if you know what I mean." Guy's expression must say that he does not know what he means, for he adds, "She's bossy. And why do you want to leave anyway? Seems pretty cozy, apart from the feathers over there."

Questions are to be expected, but they open the door for doubt, and there is no room for doubt in this plan.

"If you do not want it, fine," he growls. After folding several coins into the palm of his hand, he throws the rest back in the box and closes the lid. "But I would suggest leaving today unless you want to find yourself back in the desert on Richard's orders."

"Hold on a second! That wasn't a no," Allan cries, scrambling up and pulling on his clothes when Guy turns and heads for the door. "I'm in," he says as he tugs a light green undershirt over his head. "It doesn't really matter where I go now, does it?"

Guy is overcome by an embarrassing wave of relief, but he only gives a terse "Good" and tosses the pouch of money at his waist onto the bed. "I need you to go and find whatever supplies you can, enough for a week if possible. And fast, Allan. I want to be on the road by noon," he orders and then is striding toward the next room.

Marian is still sleeping when he kicks open the door. She is all bent limbs and awkward positions, a jumble of angles broken only by the pale curve of thigh that has escaped the thin sheet. Guy remembers the first time he saw her asleep, when he had come to tell her that it was not the real king who returned. How angelic she had looked with her hands folded over the blanket, how unlike the Marian he has come to know. Now she sprawls on her stomach like a sack of grain, her hair a witchy tangle of curls. She tosses her head back and forth in dreamy irritation and then huffs into her pillow.

Guy would like nothing more than to run his hand up her leg, and see if she is still the Marian of last night, the one who met all the challenges that he thought would send her fleeing upstairs. He remembers the feel of her teeth against his neck and the way she said his name. He remembers the glide of her fingertips at his waist, the way they teased at going lower. Marian is an awkward seductress whose wanton courage almost always falters in the last act, but he doesn't care. In fact he finds the strange primness almost more arousing; every inch of bared flesh, every hard-earned gasp, every clutch of her fingers feel like small victories. They are reactions that are _his _and _his _alone.

Now she yawns and rolls on her back. She still wears the green robe from last night, and when it slips off her shoulder and exposes a lush curve of breast, Guy would like to thank whoever left it here, even though he is fairly sure that they did not meet a happy end. It's another sign screaming _get out now_, albeit one that is also making him want to crawl into the bed, wake her up, and then never leave.

No, he tells himself. There _will be _plenty of time for that whenever they get to . . . wherever they are going. And then Guy plans on having a lot of sex in a lot of different positions to make up for the fact that he might never have land or a title or any of the other things that he has worked his entire life to achieve. To make up for the fact that they very well may run out of money and starve within ten years.

Dark thoughts begin to swarm his new plan. Turning away, he grabs the corner of a satchel and begins to scoop up whatever he can find in an effort to expel them, but after only a few moments he is tempted to call Allan back and tell him to never mind. This is madness; he can't escape the King of England. And after all, what is one more death on his conscience? He is just rusty—his reluctance will disappear once he has a sword in his grip. His hands reach for the crumpled remains of the outfit Marian was wearing last night when she arrived. He will send her away and make it up to her later; she will be angry, but she has proven that she has some affection for him.

"You did not come upstairs."

Marian's voice is low and husky with sleep. Dropping the satchel, Guy whips around, her clothing in his fist. She sits with her back against the headboard as she watches him with eyes that are still a little dreamy.

"Time escaped me," he says.

"I see," she says, for once without censure. Guy studies her face as silence fills the room. It's flushed from sleep and free of the tenseness that so often invades her features when she looks his way. She gives him a tentative half smile that makes his heart leap into his throat, and he wads the material in his hands more tightly.

Her gaze drops to the clothing he is holding and then to the satchel at his feet. Her smile disappears, replaced by a tightening of the mouth.

"I take it that I am still leaving? I suppose that it should not come as a surprise," she says coolly, but for a second Guy thought that he did see a flicker of surprise, right before the return of the tone he hates, the one that carries a regal sniff of disapproval and a bitterness that suggests she's chastising herself for ever thinking that things might have turned out differently.

Angry, he opens his mouth to remind her that he made her no promises and that she is sadly mistaken if she thinks that she can fuck him into submission, but the words die when he finds her eyes. Because while the usual disappointment is there, it is overwhelmed by something that he has only seen once before, when he told her that he had chosen not to help Lambert. It is sadness, a leaden infinite sadness that stops him cold.

"No," he says, "you are not."

"What?" she says, sitting forward so quickly that a lock of hair falls forward. She pushes it back behind her ear.

"No," he repeats. "Weare leaving. Get dressed," he orders before he can change his mind, and throws the clothing at her. He bends down to grab the satchel; when he comes back up she is standing completely still, clutching the white shirt to her chest and staring at him as though he has lost his wits.

"I don't understand," she says.

"If there is no Nottingham," he says, "then I no longer have reason to be here. But we need to go now."

He tosses the satchel at her, and she drops the shirt to catch the bag. He would be lying if he said that he did not get the tiniest thrill from seeing her off-guard rather than disappointed.

"But where are we going?" she splutters.

"Away," he says, and Guy realizes that his plan still needs some thought.

"Away where?"

"Marian, we do not have time for your questions!" Guy barks. Turning his back to her, he sets to stuffing clothing in the remaining bags. "Cyprus, possibly. Perhaps further up the coast."

"We are not returning to England?" she says, a note of alarm replacing her previous surprise. She grabs his forearm, and he jerks it away so quickly that her nails scratch his skin. Wary, she retreats a step.

Guy tries to be calm, but now that the adrenaline is once again snaking its way through his veins, he is afraid to stop moving. "I apologize," he says, crossing the room and retrieving what she has dropped. "But no, not to England."

He holds the shirt toward her, but she does not take it. Instead she studies him, eyes muddied by consternation as they flit over his face.

"What are we escaping?" she asks finally. "Does this have to do with the letters?"

Guy curses. They do not have time to get into an argument about what he had been brought here to do. She will focus on what he might have done rather than what he is doing.

"Can you not just trust me when I say that we want no part of this?" he growls, but he already knows the answer even before Marian's temper takes over.

"If I am going to abandon all that I have ever known," she says on cue, "then I think I deserve a reason!"

"A reason?"

"Yes!"

Guy opens his mouth to give her the reason, but they are so large that he does not even know where to begin. He tosses the shirt on the bed and, without a word, goes back to arranging the bags. How about because he has let himself be led into an even more demeaning position than he had before? How about because he is tired of pretending that he can make things happen by force of will alone?

When he refuses to turn back around and when his movements grow more savage, Marian says his name. She repeats his name several more times and then sighs, but he doesn't stop packing and stuffing until the bags are in a pile. Now he has nothing left to do but pivot and confront her. Still, he hesitates.

"I left the king's camp with Robin Hood!" Marian says from behind him, her words rushed and tripping over one another.

He is facing her in less than a second. "What?" he snaps.

"I left the king's camp with Robin Hood and his gang," she repeats, "and then Allan and I abandoned them in Tyre to find you." She raises her eyebrows. "I have shared my secret. Now you share yours."

At first her expression is triumphant, but the triumph dims with every second he fails to speak. He had suspected that Hood was involved, but it was one more thing on top of a thousand other things that he did not want to think about. But now the familiar jealousy pours in, and it feels like it always feels: like the grate of teeth beneath his skin.

"And how did you convince Hood to let you accompany him?" he asks finally.

"What does it matter? I am here with you," she says, and while her words carry the gloss of her usual impatience, there is a hum of nervousness belied by her inconstant gaze. For every beat that it holds his, it spends another searching the corners.

"It matters."

"Why?"

"Do not act the fool. It does not _suit _you," he says, stepping forward swiftly enough that she flinches.

"I do not know what you—"

"Can I assume that your playacting means that it is something I will not want to hear?"

There is a long pause, during which she seems to be waging an internal debate. She studies her hands; she studies the steep wall of the neighboring building.

"No," she says finally. "It means only that I am ashamed."

Guy's heart clutches as he tries to imagine what could bring her shame. Has she been colluding with Hood all this time, and if so, for what possible purpose? But that would mean that last night was . . . no, she wouldn't. Would she?

"Ashamed of what?" he manages to choke out, although his throat has suddenly gone dry. He does not know what he will do if she confirms yet another betrayal; not now, when he stands on the edge of everything. "Ashamed of what, Marian?"

"I told him that I had changed my mind about marrying you," she says with the solemnity of confession. "I told him that I wanted to return with him to Nottingham and marry him there. But I never meant it; I only used him to get away from the camp because I knew his was the only request that Richard would not deny. I used him, and so I am ashamed. But I _had _to find you," she insists and then hesitates before adding. "I was worried."

Guy searches her body for signs of deception despite the fact that he has ever been particularly adept at noticing them. But given what he saw of Hood and Richard, it does make sense. Guy would laugh at Hood being brought low if Marian had ever shown half this much remorse over tricking _him_.

"What pretty guilt," he sneers, and then begins to pace.

"I do not see what you are still angry about," Marian says on his third round. "I had expected you to be happy."

"Why would I be happy?"

"He will leave us be. He will hate me."

"That is supposed to reassure me?"

"Yes!" she yells, but then gives a frustrated sigh. "Well, no. But I do not know how else to convince you that I have chosen to be here, that I _want _to be. . . . Would you please stop pacing? You are making me dizzy."

Guy has no intention of stopping; he will wear a path in the floor and fall into the room below before he relents. This conversation has gotten away from him, and it is all her fault. He glares in her direction, expecting to find her cheeks mottled with anger. But when he gets a clear view of her face, it is bone white. He barely has time to say her name before she sits on the bed and puts her head between her knees.

"What is wrong?" Guy asks, concern halting him in his tracks.

"It is nothing," she says, her voice muffled by a curtain of hair. "I am fine."

He approaches her, stopping in front of her bowed head. Her shoulders rise and fall with every deep breath.

"You do not look fine," he observes.

"I ate something that did not agree with me on the journey. I need to learn that just because Allan eats it, it does not mean that I should."

Guy takes a seat beside her. "You should be more careful," he admonishes. The lingering frustration makes it come out more harshly than he intended.

Raising her head, she levels him with a dirty look. "Yes, I should be."

While her words are conciliatory, the tone is anything but, and Guy is left to wonder why this of all things seems to have made her the angriest.

"Good," he says finally, for lack of something better. "We are in agreement then."

Marian blinks at him for a few seconds, and then emits a short laugh. "You are so…" she trails off and then laughs again.

Guy frowns. "So what?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing."

"So what?" he insists.

"So Guy," she says. "You are so Guy."

That does not make him feel better at all. Before he can ask for further clarification—like whether her smile is amused or pitying—Marian pulls her hand from beneath his and then lays her fingers on his sleeve. He stares at her hand, its tapered fingers pale in the early light. It looks like the hand of any well-bred lady. Sometimes when he is just looking at her, Guy still has trouble believing that Marian was the Nightwatchman. But then he feels the scars or hears the rigid determination in her voice, and he wonders how he could have ever doubted it.

"Please," she murmurs, and while her voice is soft he hears that determination now. "Please tell me why you want to leave." His reluctance must be obvious, because she scoots toward him until their knees are touching and then touches his arm. "I am not trying to be difficult, and I am not saying that I will not go with you—that I do not _want _to go with you—but I need to know."

Guy studies her face, warm in the hardy glow of sunlight that has fought its way through the meager space between the buildings, and yet her features are strangely still and drawn. She is holding her breath, Guy realizes, and that small sign of anticipation suddenly makes him feel guilty for denying her. But he does not want to admit that until she arrived with news of Nottingham he had every intention of going through with Richard's request. She will take it the wrong way, make more of it than it is, as though he himself had conceived of the plan to kill the Abbess and has spent the last month cackling in excitement.

Still, if the siege of Nottingham taught him anything, it's that Marian will not be budged unless she wants to be budged.

"Richard does not want to leave the Holy Land," Guy says, resigned. "He wishes to upset the peace with Saladin and continue his campaign here."

Marian lets out the breath that she had been holding, and for a few moments there is only the sound of her even breathing. Now comes the part where she tells him that he is mad, that Richard would never neglect his people in such a manner.

But Marian does not say any of that. Marian only looks grave and asks, "And how does he plan to do that?"

At first Guy cannot think of anything to say, except maybe to ask if she has suffered a quick blow to the head.

"Yes?" Marian prompts.

"The treaty allows for pilgrims to pass freely into Jerusalem," he says, and closely watches for signs of disbelief before continuing. "If pilgrims are attacked, he would have grounds to declare the treaty violated. And stay, I presume, although I do not know if those who are calling for his return will see it that way."

"So he is waiting for pilgrims to be attacked? I do not understand. What need would he have of you here?"

Guy says nothing. He only watches as Marian's confusion turns to comprehension and then to disgust.

"You are to attack the pilgrims," she says and then lets go of his arm as though it were poisonous.

It's as though she has forgotten the entire reason they are having this conversation. "No," Guy snarls, "I am not. We are leaving, as I have said." He stands up and heads toward the door. "Get dressed and come downstairs. Allan should return with supplies soon."

"Wait! We need to talk about this!" she cries to his back. "Are you the only one?" she asks, but her tone suggests that she already knows the answer. Guy would like to take those damn letters and toss them all out the window.

"What does it matter?"

"Because if you are not the only one, then we need to stop it!"

In that second, Guy realizes that he has made a grievous miscalculation. This crazy desire to save the world is what he should have feared, not disbelief or disgust.

"No," he says.

Marian appears non-plussed. "Excuse me?"

"No," he repeats, crossing the room to stand in front of her, to make his wishes clear. "I have been indulgent for far too long. This madness ends now."

She stands in a fury. "_Madness_?" she says. "I am talking about stopping the deaths of innocent people, and you call it _madness_?"

Her chin tilts up, hitting him with the full force of her haughty righteousness. Suddenly, all the anger that had left him when she took ill comes rushing back to fill their familiar grooves. He grabs her arms and pulls her closer, not caring when she gasps in shock.

"Yes," he says to her jaw, for she keeps her face turned away. "I call it madness, all of it. Your little dealings with Hood only succeeded because of my infatuation, because of my willingness to be used as a tool. Without me, you would have failed a thousand times over."

"You overstate your own importance," she says stiffly, but Guy would like to think that does not sound certain at all.

"Do I?"

"Let me go."

"Not until you realize that we would not be in this situation if not for your misguided ideals!" he yells, and doesn't realize how much blame the words carry until he hears her indrawn breath, feels her body tense.

"Do you think that I do not realize my own culpability?" she challenges. "Because I do."

Marian turns to look at him, her eyes grave. A swift agreement was not what Guy expected.

"You do?" he asks, his surprise evident.

"Yes," she affirms and Guy wavers. Perhaps he had not given her enough credit, he thinks, perhaps she will be reasonable.

". . . And that is precisely why it is my responsibility to fix it," she continues.

Perhaps not.

"It is not something that can be fixed," he says tersely.

"It is not something that you care to fix!" she retorts. "Tell me, are you leaving because Nottingham has gone to Robin or because you honestly do not want to do this?"

"There were other considerations," he says between gritted teeth.

"What? How much you stood to gain?"

"No, _you. _There was a reason that Richard wanted you in the camp. I did not want to drag you down with me."

The irritation on Marian's face flickers, and she drops her gaze to study a point on his chin. This would be a perfect time for her to say thank you. But when she opens her mouth, it is not for gratitude.

"We could at least warn them," she says.

Guy releases her arm in disgust. "It is impossible, Marian."

"Why? Why is it impossible?"

"We are two people."

"Allan is here!"

"Perhaps you should ask him before you volunteer him to be hanged!"

For a second Marian looks shamed, but she soon recovers. "Still," she says, "surely we are intelligent enough to avoid being killed

"Perhaps. But you do not bare your neck for the sword just because you think you are quick enough to dodge it."

Marian remains skeptical. Her arms are crossed over her chest like a shield, her eyes are still bright with fury, and although Guy cannot see her heels, he is sure that by now they are embedded in the floor. Pragmatism is obviously not enough to sway her.

"Their plan is already faltering," he says, trying another tactic. "The pilgrims are delayed. My absence will be yet another hole. Richard's court is clamoring for his return; he will not be able to hold out much longer."

"How can you be so certain?" Marian scoffs. "Some of us are not as comfortable with blood on our hands."

That is the last straw. Marian is far better than anyone he has ever known, but he is tired of her playing the saint, especially now when he is trying to do something right. He has been silent for too long.

"I would not say such things if I were you," he says darkly.

"And what does that mean?"

"Only that your actions have cost men their lives."

"Who? Vasey? I will not lose sleep over that, and neither should you!"

He shakes his head. "Not Vasey. Men who were punished for information that you betrayed."

Her neck tightens, and Guy thinks he sees guilt nipping at the edges of her resolve. "I did what I thought was best," she says. "I am sorry if that put them on the wrong side of the perversity that Vasey called justice."

"Yes, you did what you thought was best to bring home Good King Richard. But perhaps," he says, gaining steam, "you should have asked yourself whether or not Good King Richard wanted to come home. But instead you chose to stupidly believe Hood's _lies_ and help a cause that only existed in a madman's head. Do you know how many men were put to death every time Hood breached the Sheriff's treasury in order to steal money meant for Prince John's campaign? It was enough to empty one of the villages you championed so valiantly."

"How dare you pretend to care!" she seethes. "When you were the one who—,"

"I do not care!" Guy interrupts, "but I never professed to do so. You did, and yet you made their lives—"

"Enough!" Marian yells with a note of desperation, and then raises her hand when he starts to speak again. She sits on the bed, and at first Guy wonders if she is once again feeling ill. But she does not look flushed or feverish, just stunned. She grips her knees, and the white of her knuckles are a stark contrast to the deep hue of the robe. All of a sudden, Guy fears that he has gone too far. Marian _believes _in things, and it lights her up from the inside.

"Marian," he says, and when she does not turn to look at him, the fear grows stronger. He tries to touch her cheek but she knocks his hand away. "Say something," he insists.

"I will leave with you," she says in a voice that's eerie and flat. "We do not need to argue anymore."

Guy should feel triumphant, but instead he feels hollow. He should not have said those things. She had no way of knowing any of what would happen; he hated King Richard, and yet he could not have predicted half of it.

"Your charitable instincts are to be admired," he says clumsily in an effort to fix what he has torn. "But this is not Nottingham, and I am not. . .,"

He lets the sentence die. He had intended to say "and I am not willing to risk you," but it somehow sounds cowardly when compared to her willingness to fling herself in the path of all danger, so he says nothing.

"I understand," she says, but he knows that she doesn't.

"It was not my intention to—,"

Marian cuts him off. "I will meet you downstairs. Please go," she says. And so he does.

***

It takes Marian less than thirty minutes to be ready, but she does not go downstairs. Instead she sits on the end of the bed and stares at the mound of bags in the corner as she tries to make sense of what just happened. Guy had taken her by surprise—knocking about the room like an insane person and tossing things at her—and then she had felt sick, and felt even sicker when he had confirmed everything that she had feared: that all her work in the name of bringing Richard back to England had been silly and shortsighted, had in fact hurt more than it helped.

Marian turns to survey the packet of letters at her hip, touching the ragged edges and twisting the rough piece of twine around her finger until its tip turns red. She had retrieved them as soon as Guy slammed the door, full of indignation and the mad desire to prove him wrong. Because she _had _helped Nottingham's people—she had—and here was everything they needed to figure out the who and where and when. For a brief moment she had mad fantasies where she abandoned Guy, alerted everyone to the danger, and then returned to gloat.

But then she had flipped through the pile again, reading name after name after name, and realized with dawning horror that Guy was right—Guy! Who had not realized her condition even when she was dropping foolish, peevish comments and nearly vomiting in his lap! This fight is too large for one person to tackle; it is even too large for two people to tackle, not that she could even find anyone. Allan is unlikely to agree to any more endeavors—at least if she takes his many mutterings about her sanity at face value—and Robin is no longer an option. _He _would want to help her stop it, but that would mean winning back his trust and convincing him that it was happening in the first place. Is it even possible to cut through his devotion to Richard? She no longer knows. He never spoke of what happened here, had always brushed it off while Much looked on from the background with a worried brow. Perhaps she should have tried.

Marian lies down and hugs her knees, feeling childish but needing the comfort. So this is what it feels like to give up—numb relief. She had always thought that it would happen locked in a dungeon or standing on a scaffold, not sitting in an empty bedroom in Jerusalem. There is nothing to do now except hope that Guy's last-ditch effort to convince her to leave is correct, and that this insane plan of Richard's will fail due to chance and dumb luck. Maybe a person really can help by merely doing nothing. Perhaps she should have been doing nothing all along.

Marian does not know how much time has passed, but it feels like an eternity. She is surprised that Guy has not yet bellowed from below; Allan has surely returned by now. After a few deep breaths to work up her nerve, she climbs off the bed, grabs a satchel and heads downstairs.

Guy sits in the deep window, one boot braced against the clay frame as he squints through the half-opened wooden shutters. Marian studies him from the foot of the stairs. She wants to hate him for what he said, but every scrap of anger fizzles as soon as she finds it. After all, he had not said anything that she had not thought herself in the past month. As for the rest . . . it was her own fault for falling once again into that familiar trap of setting her expectations too high. All things considered, she should be grateful that Guy has decided that he doesn't want to kill nuns.

"Where is Allan?" she asks to break the silence and her own dark thoughts.

Immediately, Guy stands, his eyes searching her face with a concern that she does her best to ignore. "He has not yet returned."

Marian takes a seat at the end of the table. There are several platters of untouched food, and she busies herself with peeling an orange so that she will not have to watch Guy watching her.

Guy pulls out the chair beside her. "Once Allan returns, I thought we would try to make Samaria by nightfall. We should avoid Jaffa," he says as he sits. "What do you think?"

"I do not have an opinion," she says, continuing to peel, although if she did have an opinion it would be that he still has not told her enough to make an informed judgment.

"You always have an opinion."

Looking at him with what she hopes is a serene expression, Marian says nothing. The old Marian would have been a little thrilled with how disgruntled Guy looks. . . . Perhaps new Marian is the tiniest bit pleased as well. At least until Guy leans forward and captures her hand.

She wants to pull it away, she does. Just because bodies respond to one another, it does not mean that they have anything in common. The sooner she learns that the better.

"Tell me what will make you happy and I will do it," Guy says, and in his mouth it sounds like a command.

A loud rap on the door saves her from responding that it isn't that simple, because what will make her happy isn't simple. It might not even make any sense.

"That will be Allan," she says, extricating her hand and standing up to get the door. Her heart starts to pound as she realizes what she's agreed to. Suddenly she does not feel so numb; suddenly she feels very scared.

Guy holds out an arm, blocking her way. "Allan doesn't knock."

"What?"

"Believe me," he says darkly, and then tells her to stay still. Grabbing his sword, he approaches the door just as it swings open to reveal a familiar build.

"It_ is_ Allan," she says, before she realizes that Allan's hands are up and that he has not returned alone. For there are people standing behind him. . . a group of very familiar people.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Fallout (18/?)  
Author: Bookishy  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 5100  
Summary: Guy and Marian deal with the aftermath of killing the Sheriff. An AU fanfic taking place after the events of episode 2.13.

Thank you to EVERYONE who is still reading this story, even though I am the slowest writer in the known universe. This chapter is a little shorter than some of the more recent ones, but that only means that the next one is going to be one mega-chapter. The way "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" is to words, the next chapter will be to fanfic. That's a promise. I won't sing it, though. That's a promise too.

I love comments in all shapes, sizes, and forms. It was suggested that I do a mini-recap of the previous chapter since I take my sweet time in updating, so I will tell you that in Chapter 17, Marian and Guy were about to leave Jerusalem to run off to who knows where so that Guy would not have to complete Richard's mission. Marian was not too keen on this plan, but had reluctantly agreed to go in a rush of anger and defeat at having all that she had done in Nottingham called into question. All that was left was for Allan to return with supplies; but instead of supplies he returned with Robin and Co. And that's where we are.

***  
Much speaks first.

"Thought we wouldn't find you, didn't you?" he says, raising his eyebrows so high that they disappear beneath the brim of his skullcap. His taunt falters when no one responds. "Well…we did."

"Be quiet, Much," Robin says and pushes Allan inside with a firm shove, giving Marian a clear view of the group huddled in the doorway. Little John towers over everyone, the top of his staff barely clearing Much's head. Will and Djaq guard Robin's left side, watching the proceedings with solemn, worried expressions. And Robin himself—no, Marian does not want to see. She makes it to the vee of his tanned neck before averting her gaze to Guy.

His back is rigid, his pale eyes trained on Robin and no one else. "Hood," he growls, and then steps in front of her, corralling her behind him with one sharp movement.

"Wait," Marian says and places a hand on his bicep. When she tries to step around him, he blocks her roughly, the ridges of his jacket digging into her stomach. Trapped, she peers around Guy's shoulder to find Robin watching her with a brittle smile.

"I'd listen to her if I were you, Gisborne," Robin says. "After all, we just stopped by to chat."

"Then put down your sword!" Marian snaps, still trying to fathom why he has followed her here. This is the Robin that she hates, the one who hides his anger with sharp-edged pleasantries, the one who is so caught in his own head that he listens to no one. And yet, at the moment, she is thankful; she would rather deal with pantomime than a Robin who wears evidence of her betrayal on his sleeve for all the world to see.

"Tell Gisborne to put down his," Robin says.

"Never!" Guy yells, and Marian digs her fingers into his arm as a warning, praying that he will stay calm until she can find some way to defuse the situation. He doesn't shake her off—that's one raft in a sea of trouble, at least—but she can feel his muscles coiling like a snake ready to strike.

"You are the intruder," she tells Robin coolly. "You are the one whose intentions are in question. Put away your sword."

For a second, Robin looks wounded, but that soon gives way to an expression of mock-offense. "An intruder?" he says. "I came to offer help. Your letter made it sound important."

At the mention of the letter she left for Robin in Tyre, Guy's muscles wind tighter. Marian wants to kick herself. She had been desperate to make Robin understand the reasons for her betrayal, so the letter had dripped with reasons and apology. Now she wonders if it would have been better to have made it cold and cutting. Her selfishness has only managed to bring five people to a foreign doorstep.

Marian blinks, and then studies the group standing before her. They are dusty from the road, and wear the strain of swift travel, but their determination shines in the set of their bodies. Much's scowl, Little John's proud stance, Will's unflinching gaze. . . Her mind races. Guy's objection--his excuse--against her plan was that they were only three, but now there are five more people standing here in a wonderful, overflowing gift of fate.

On a wave of righteous triumph, she turns toward Guy, a dare on her lips. Ignore this now, she intends to say, fight me now. But she starts when she finds that Guy is already looking at her. He has torn his gaze away from his enemy and is staring at her with an expression that is half pained disbelief and half festering suspicion. Her heart skips a beat; he thinks that she told them to come. Despite everything, he thinks that she has betrayed him again. It rattles her from her course.

"I did not know that he would come," she insists softly, "I did not. You must believe me."

Guy says nothing, just continues to watch her with eyes that are growing colder by the second. In a panic, she turns to Robin.

"The letter said for you to return to Nottingham," she says, attempting to inject some of the ice that letter lacked. "It did not ask for your help."

"And leave out the pilgrimage to Jerusalem?" Robin says. "Where would be the fun in that? Besides, you didn't say goodbye."

"Do not speak to her," Guy snaps, whirling on the outlaw, "or I will—"

"You will what?" Robin asks, finally deigning to look at Guy. "Kill me? You couldn't manage that in Nottingham, so pardon me if I refuse to cower."

"You don't have a forest to hide in now."

"And you don't have a wall of guards to hide behind," Robin counters and then steps forward as though daring Guy to react. Guy rips his arm from Marian's grasp just as Little John puts a heavy hand on Robin's shoulder.

"You said we come to talk," Little John says, and it gives Marian time to restore her grip on Guy's elbow.

"Yes," Will says. "We did not come to fight."

Djaq nods at this, and then her brown eyes search out Marian's. "Let's put down our swords," she says. "Perhaps Gisborne will agree."

"We are outnumbered," Marian says to Guy's ear, knowing that she'll have better luck appealing to his practical side. When he makes no move to lower his sword, she repeats it.

"I heard you," he says darkly, and his tone makes her stiffen. She has done everything possible to prove her loyalty to him. She would have gone with him; she would have abandoned people in need.

"I am asking you," she whispers furiously. "I am asking you to put it down."

Her words hang in the air, limp and dead, and the anger in Marian's heart trips into fear.

Finally, Guy jerks head toward Robin's sword.

"His first," he growls.

Immediately, the gang murmurs their encouragement, and they keep murmuring until Robin throws his sword down with a sound of disgust. Djaq retrieves it and hands it to Little John. After a pause that's too long for Marian's comfort, Guy starts to put his sword back in its scabbard.

"No," Robin says, "to the side."

Guy snorts. "Not likely!"

"John, give me my sword back," Robin insists.

"He no longer has his," Marian orders Guy, "put it down."

After another nerve-shattering pause, Guy places his sword on the table behind them. Quickly, Marian leans over and knocks it away, not relaxing until she hears it clatter off the other side. The lull in the tension comes swift as a summer breeze, and leaves just as quickly. Now that everyone is unarmed, Marian has no idea what to say or do.

Allan is the first to move, approaching Guy as though everything had been smoothed over. "Good," he says. "That's settled then. I'm glad that—"

Guy grabs him by the shirtfront before he can finish.

"You brought them here," Guy accuses. "Why?"

Allan's eyes widen in surprise, but his voice is steady. "I'm tired of being in the middle; I'm tired of being the one who gets punched and kicked and threatened by Marian." He holds up his hands. "After all, we're all on the same side now, aren't we? No more Sheriff; no more outlaws."

"I will never be on his side!" Guy yells, pushing Allan away with enough force that he knocks against the nearest chair. Marian throws him an apologetic look as a chuckle comes from the direction of the doorway.

"I can see why you wanted to work for him, Allan," Robin says, stepping forward to survey the room with the air of a curious traveler. He runs a finger over the sill of the window and then tests the swing of a shutter.

"Don't get comfortable, Hood. You are not staying." Guy swings his gaze to where the rest of the gang stands watching him, wary and alert. "Same goes for the rest of you."

Amused, Robin looks toward Guy before finding the nearest chair. When he sits, defiance is etched in every movement. "So tell me about this important mission for the King?" he says, propping his feet up on the table before shifting his gaze to Marian. "I hope that it is worth it."

"I told you not to speak to her!" Guy yells.

"What? Afraid she'll run away? I don't blame you."

Marian goes rigid. That slight could be meant for either of them, but Guy chooses to take it as his own. Marian barely has time to step in front of him before he lunges forward. He is so tense, a thread about to snap. A flicker of exasperated sympathy overtakes her, of all things. If Robin is a closed book under stress, Guy is an open sore.

She holds up her hands, palms surrendered to his chest. "You should not let him needle you so," she says softly, and she thinks that he grows calmer. "I think everyone would feel more comfortable if you sat down as well."

"I do not want to sit down," Guy says, biting out the last two words as though they were a curse.

"Please," she says, and then turns to the rest of the gang and Allan, who is rubbing his hip as though it pains him. "I think we should all sit down and try to sort out this misunderstanding."

After sharing a few nervous glances, the rest of the outlaws move to obey. Much takes the seat to Robin's right, while Little John, Djaq, and Will take the three to his left. Allan perches at the end, not choosing either side. It strikes Marian as an odd sight, to suddenly see these people clustered around a table instead of a campfire.

"This is pointless, Marian," Guy says from behind her.

"Do you have a better idea?" she asks, frustrated. "They are not going to leave just because you tell them to leave." When he makes no move toward the chairs, she pulls one out and sits. "You are the only one left standing."

Guy levels her with a look that makes Marian glad that there are six other people in the room. She holds his gaze, refusing to be cowed. Finally, he moves, walking behind her and taking the seat that is directly across from Robin. Perhaps she should have been more specific about what chair to sit in, she thinks. The heavy wood table separating them no longer seems so heavy or so wide.

"Trouble in paradise?" Robin says, stretching his arms behind his head as he watches Guy with icy glee.

"Be serious, Robin," Marian says, frustrated. "You did not come here to act the fool."

"Debatable," Guy says, before Marian levels him with her own look.

"You're right. I did not," Robin says, dropping his arms and legs in order to lean forward. "I came here to expose him for a traitor."

"He is here on Richard's orders!"

"Right. And do we know what those orders are?"

"I would not want to betray his confidence," Guy says tersely, and Marian looks at him in surprise. If she had been asked to place bets, she would have counted on Guy tripping over himself to inform Robin of Richard's duplicity. As if sensing her confusion, Guy's eyes cut to her in warning. The meaning is clear: Say nothing.

"Confidence?" Robin scoffs, but there's an unbalance there that worries her.

Guy allows himself a mean smile. "Yes. Confidence that he gave to me."

Marian wants to smack him. This is not helping. Robin needs to know the truth--they all need to know--and it will be best if it comes from her. But Guy will take it as another betrayal. She tries to tell herself that it's not important, that there are bigger concerns at play, but the words do not come.

Robin leans forward and matches Guy's smile with one of his own. "Not enough confidence, obviously. Not enough to give you Nottingham."

Guy's face darkens and his lip curls, but Marian interrupts before he can say anything more.

"And perhaps his confidence is misplaced there as well, if you are ignoring it in favor of chasing us to Jerusalem. What about the people?" she asks, ignoring Guy's hiss of disgust and keeping her eyes trained on Robin. He has fought so hard for them, and yet now it is as if they are an afterthought.

Robin has the good sense to look guilty, at least for a moment. But then he shrugs and says, "Convince me that he is not a traitor, and I will go. Simple as that." He looks at Guy. "Or not."

Marian has to grab the edge of the table to keep from hurling things across it. They are talking in circles, just like they have always done. She looks to Guy again, but his eyes still carry the same warning.

"There are bags by the wall. And a chest," Much says suddenly, and Marian turns back to find that Much has twisted around in his seat. "They are leaving! Robin, they are running away!"

Guy curses just as Robin's face breaks into a knowing smile.

"So what is it, Gisborne? Can't do the work if the work isn't dirty?" Robin asks, but Marian doesn't give him time for his taunt to sink in.

"This is not what you think," she begins, but she is interrupted by the scrape of Guy's chair as he stands, swiftly enough that it wobbles before coming to a rest. Placing his hands on the table, he leans toward Robin.

"You are a fool. Too close to the King to see what is in front of your nose. Go back to Nottingham. It deserves you," he sneers before turning to hover over Marian. "As predicted, this is pointless. We are leaving."

Instinctively, Marian clutches the edge of the table as though it were a safeguard against going. "I am not done here," she says. She is so tired--tired of lying, tired of the subterfuge, tired of running away, tired of hiding everything from everyone. In the end, it only succeeds in summoning misery down upon her own head.

"We should tell them," she says

Guy tilts his head to the side as though he does not believe what he is hearing. "No. We do not need him informing Richard of--"

"They need to know!"

"Know what?" Robin asks, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward.

Guy ignores him. "Marian, say nothing," he warns again.

"Why? Because then they might want to help?" she asks, her previous anger with him coming back with a vengeance. Just once, she thinks. Just once she would like to see him think of something beyond his own neck.

Guy looks away, obviously uncomfortable, and Marian knows that her guess is at least somewhat correct. But then he turns back, his eyes flat.

"I do not see what help one fanatic and his gang of idiots will afford," he says, which earns an indignant protest from Much.

"Excuses," she says, "always excuses! Do you honestly believe half the things that you say?"

Guy's expression darkens. "I am trying to get us out of this alive."

"And I am trying to lay everything on the table, once and for all. There is no more need for deception. Allan is right," she says, and then looks to Allan for support, but he is pretending to study an orange.

"No," Guy shakes his head. "You agreed. You already agreed, Marian."

Marian says nothing, only holds his gaze as he waits for her to make a move to follow. Even in the dim light, she can see the signs of exhaustion on his face. He is pale, and the small lines of worry clustered at the corner of his eyes seem to have deepened overnight. She wonders how long it's been since he slept. She is tired of fighting.

"Well?" he says.

"Do not put me in this position," she says. Everything is slipping out of her control; everything is happening too fast. She had agreed, this is true, but it was because she had wanted him to stop throwing failure in her face. But now there is a possibility again to turn it around, to fix it all, and if he could just see . . .

"Who is that?" Djaq says all of a sudden.

A small boy stands in the doorway. His shirt must have been white once, but now it is a dull beige, and the ragged hems of his pants barely clear his knees. As she watches, he raises a bony arm and points to the mound of bags in the corner, before releasing a stream of language that she doesn't understand. Every so often he looks to Guy and his voice rises in agitation.

"Who is he?" Marian asks.

"Ahmad. Baldrick's servant," Guy says tersely and then yells at the boy to go away.

"Guy!" Marian chastises. "He is a child!"

"He has no business here!"

Marian looks to Ahmad. He is still speaking, babbling, but now he is close to tears. "What is wrong?"

"He is saying that the money is for the men," Djaq says, and then turns to accuse Guy. "He says that it is not for you. He says that he will be punished and begs for you not to take it."

"What money?" Robin says.

"In the chest," Djaq reports, before standing up and crossing to Ahmad. He flinches away from her at first, but she crouches down and holds out her hands, talking to him in a tone that is low and soothing.

Marian hears the scrape of a chair, and then Robin is walking across the room to pick up the chest at the base of the bags. Guy growls for him to stay away and then charges around the table but Little John blocks his way, sword in one hand, staff in the other. He can only watch as Robin digs his fingers beneath the lid and pulls it off.

"Well, this is interesting," Robin says and then tips the chest forward to show its contents. The movement dislodges a few gold coins. They clink when they hit the ground, and one rolls to a stop at the toe of Marian's shoe. A crudely minted head stares up at her.

"It was Baldrick's,"Guy says, and even though he dodges her attempts to catch his eye, she knows that it is for her benefit. "We needed resources."

"Save your explanations for the King," Robin says before walking forward and dropping the chest on the table in front of Marian. The deliberateness of the gesture does not escape her notice. She raises her eyes to find Robin staring down at her with an empty triumph that soon changes to concern when he adds, "He is not to be trusted. The sooner you learn that the better. Before it is too late."

As she looks up at Robin, her heart twists. He has always been so sure of himself, even as a teenager, and his return from the Holy Land made her believe in a world that she had thought would never be possible. And they had made that world happen; Nottingham would be a better place now with Robin at the helm. But not if he persists in thinking that the King is a man to be trusted.

"This is not what you think, Robin," she begins again. This time she does not dare look at Guy.

"Really?" Robin says. "I think that Gisborne decided to run off with the money instead of fulfilling his obligation."

Marian can only stare at him in disbelief. "Two minutes ago you were accusing him of coming here with a grand plan, and now you have decided he is a thief! Do you hear yourself?"

"Do you?" Robin yells. "You always believe him! Every time!"

The accusation makes her uncomfortable. "That is not true," she says tightly.

"_Guy_ would not try to kill the King," he mimics, "_Guy_ would not lie to me. Wake up, Marian. He has done that and more. What does he have to do before you understand that he is never to be trusted?"

Marian looks around to find that everyone is watching her. Allan even raises his eyebrows and lets out a soft whistle. She risks a glance at Guy--if ever there were a time for him to pull everyone's attention away with some ridiculous comment, now is it. But whatever his expression was a few seconds ago, it is now a picture of reluctant curiosity. He is waiting for an answer along with everyone else.

"He is not lying," she says lamely, for she has no real defense for questions that she has never been able to properly answer herself.

Robin makes a sound of disbelief. "I am beginning to doubt your judge of character," he says, and his derision is thick and palpable. How dare he judge her, how dare he, after everything that she did to keep his king safe.

"Do not speak to me of character!" she says, standing up so that there is only a few lengths between them.

"What does that mean?"

"You made me believe that Richard would help!" Marian yells, and while this is not how she wanted to broach this subject, her composure is too frayed to stop. "You told me--you told us--that all we needed to do was alert Richard of Vasey's perfidy and then all would be saved. England would be saved. But my father--"

Robin looks to the ceiling, exasperated. "I told you, Richard did not know!"

"He did not care!" Marian says. "He does not care. And now he is at the root of something even worse."

Suddenly, Much laughs. "She's gone mad!" he says, coming up to put his hand on Robin's shoulder. "I told you that the desert heat would get to one of us. Didn't think it would be Marian, to be honest. My money was on John."

"I am not mad!" Marian yells, loudly enough that Much drops his hand and moves away, disconcerted. "Richard is planning to assassinate pilgrims in order to overturn the treaty with Saladin. If it is broken then he has a greater cause to stay."

Her words are met with a circle of skeptical eyes. Against her better judgment, she looks to Guy for help, but, strangely enough, he is not even looking at her. He is watching Robin with . . . well, she can only call it trepidation.

Robin crosses his arms and leaning against the edge of the table as though preparing to hear a campfire tale. "I see," he says. "And where are these assassins?"

Marian points to Guy. "Here, Robin, they are here! Or they would have been. That is why we were leaving."

"Are leaving," Guy corrects, breaking his silence and trying to catch Marian's eye. This time she avoids it.

"That is why we were leaving," she repeats and then takes a deep breath. "But there are more than just Guy. There are others, and I know their targets. We have letters," she says, "letters that Allan helped steal off of Richard's man."

Robin's expression grows colder and more incredulous with every word she speaks, and by the end Marian does not even know if he is still listening. He stands up and looks around at the rest of his gang as though to collect further disbelief, but apart from Little John, whose eyes remain fixed on Guy like a watchdog, they all look unnerved.

"Letters?" Will says, his voice quiet but firm.

"I nabbed some, yeah," Allan says, but then shifts uneasily beneath the communal gaze. "Don't really know what they say."

"Will!" Robin says. "Don't tell me that you believe this!"

Marian is buoyed by these small flickers of support. She speaks directly to Will. "The letters say that the pilgrims have been delayed," she says, "but that the assassins are holding their positions."

"No," Robin shakes his head. "None of this is possible."

During all of this, Djaq has been consoling Ahmad, keeping his attention diverted from the drama at hand by speaking to him in a low voice, her hands perched on his shoulders. But now she adds her voice to the chorus.

"Perhaps we should see these letters, Robin. So that we know for sure. If it is a lie we will be able to tell," she reassures him. "But if it is true that Richard does not want peace, then we must warn Saladin."

But Robin is not listening. Instead, he is moving in Guy's direction, grabbing the sword from Little John's startled hand with one deft movement as he passes. He pins him to the wall with one sharp push and holds the edge of the blade against Guy's throat.

"Tell them that you are lying," he seethes. "Tell _her _that you have lied."

"Robin, this is insane," Marian says, frozen in place. The rest of the outlaws are struck by the same paralysis. They stand still, too afraid to move even as they join her in entreating Robin to lay down the sword.

Guy's eyes slide downward, looking at the weapon pressed beneath his chin before his face contorts with the usual haughty anger.

"What's the matter, Hood?" he sneers. "The world turn out to not be as shiny as you'd hoped?"

"Not good enough," Robin says and presses the sword closer, hard enough that Guy is unable to hide a wince.

"I have proof!" Marian yells, unable to tear her eyes away from the thin slice of blood gathering above the blade, bright and red. "Can you not just trust me?" she blurts out in panic. As soon as she hears the question, she regrets it immediately.

Robin twists to face her, and his expression causes her to take a step back. "Trust you?" he says. "Trust you? You lied to me, Marian. You used me to escape the camp and come here, come to him!"

"I had to!"

"You did not _have_ to. You never _have_ to."

Marian is taken aback. "There was no problem with deception when it served your purposes in the castle!"

"I never wanted you there! You could have come to the forest with me."

"I didn't want to!" Marian yells and then sucks in a quick breath. Her throat feels raw, and although it is most likely from all the shouting, she can't help but feel that the pain is because the words have torn their way out of her. There is no longer a veil of disinterest shielding Robin's emotions, and the pain on his face cuts her to the quick. Everything is coming out wrong. It doesn't mean that I didn't love you, she wants to say.

But before she can even find the end of that sentence, Robin is lurching forward. Guy has used his opponent's distraction to gain the upper hand, delivering a sharp kick to Robin's stomach. He grabs the sword at both ends, one hand on the hilt, the other on the blade and drives the outlaw backwards. Allan barely has time to dart out of the way before they crash onto the table, knocking the oranges and pewter plates to the floor as they scramble for dominance.

"I should kill you now," Guy spits into Robin's face as he tries to force the sword down against Robin's throat, but Robin's leg is trapped between them.

"Try," Robin says just before his leg kicks forward, catching Guy on the thigh hard enough that Guy cries out and stiffens in pain, giving Robin the opportunity to roll out from under the sword. He falls to the ground and scrambles beneath the table. When he comes out the other side, it is with the sword that Marian had persuaded Guy to relinquish earlier.

Guy has recovered enough to be on the defensive, but he is limping. When Robin notices he smiles and holds the sword out in front of him, tilting it back and forth so that it catches the light.

Even though he is weakened, Guy lunges first and is easily blocked. The sound of the swords clanging is a scratch down her spine. They are going to kill one another, Marian realizes. After all the threats and posturing and close calls, they are going to destroy one another now, here, in front of her, unless she does something.

Robin shoves Guy backward and then darts forward. Guy barely has time to sidestep it and retreat; he is still favoring his left side. There is only the space of one man between them and it is about to close again.

"Stop!" she yells, stepping in between their swords before Robin has a chance to rush forward again. "This will solve nothing."

"Possibly," Robin says, breathing heavily. "But it will make me feel better."

"Likewise," Guy says before his eyes flicker away from Robin's to meet hers. "Marian, get out of the way."

"No! I am not moving," she says, and when Guy darts to the side, she follows, holding his gaze and daring him to make another parry forward. Just as Marian is preparing herself for his next movement, a hollow thunk rings. Guy staggers forward, his expression changing from anger to confusion. He falls to his knees and then crumples at her feet.

Marian looks up to find Little John standing over Guy's black form, his staff clutched in both hands, his face indecipherable. Crouching over his body, she rolls Guy from his side to his back. His skin is warm, and while scrape at his neck is still red and raw, he is at least breathing. She should condemn that bit of violence, and so she scowls at Little John, even though the thing she feels the most right now is relief. After all, unconscious is better than dead, and this takes out the most complicated variable. It gives her time to think about what comes next without feeling as though her every word was a tinderbox.

Resting a hand on Guy's chest, she turns Robin, the second most complicated variable, who has been wise enough to keep his distance even though he watches her with a dark expression.

"Are you happy?" she asks, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.

Robin doesn't answer, just runs a hand through his hair and looks at the group of uneasy people surrounding him. After a small shake of his head, he starts to saunter forward.

"Good thinking, John. We can sort out his lies without his interference," he says, stooping down next to her as though he were preparing to check Guy himself, as though this were his plan all along.

She is about to ask him what he thinks he is doing, when John raises his staff again and brings it down on a head for the second time today. Robin slumps forward over Guy's ankles.

Marian looks up in surprise. Little John hovers over her like a cliff of granite.

"Now," he says gruffly. "Now we talk."

***

Next time on Fallout:

+Marian and Djaq have more girltalk.

+The outlaws make a plan.

+Marian is the worst nurse in the entire world.


	19. Chapter 19

**Title: Fallout **

**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count: **3600  
**Summary:** Guy and Marian deal with the aftermath of killing the Sheriff. An AU fanfic taking place after the events of episode 2.13.

**A/N:** This chapter originally turned out to be over 10,000 words, so I am splitting it in two. The second half still needs some editing because I am suddenly shy. It will most likely be up in the next few days. Otherwise, comments are loved and I am sad about being a slow updater, etc.

Last time on _Fallout_, Robin and the gang showed up in Jerusalem to save the day, only to find out things weren't as cut and dry as Robin intimated. Marian shared Richard's plans with the group, but Robin would not listen and accused Guy of lying. He and Guy decided that fighting solves everything, and both of them earned a knock on the head by way of Little John for their trouble.

***

The first order of business is to move the unconscious men to the above chambers. After only a few mutterings about Little John and extreme measures, Much volunteers to take Robin. Will steps into assist, and the two disappear to the upper level. No one wants to help Marian with Guy; the remaining men do an impressive job of keeping their eyes away from where he lies. The black leather only makes him look heavier.

"Allan?" Marian says as she lifts an arm and tugs unsuccessfully. "A little help? There's another bed upstairs."

"He can do it himself," Allan says, eying Guy with considerable disgruntlement before sniffing. "Not like he appreciates my help anyway."

"He's unconscious!" she yells.

Allan just shrugs. Marian bites the inside of her cheeks to try and contain the anger that is threatening to burn its way out of her. She is fed up with men who would rather act like children than work together to solve a very real problem. Perhaps if she asked nicely, Little John would hit Allan over the head as well. Before she can make the suggestion, however, Djaq looks up from where she's been speaking to Ahmad in a low murmur.

"Please, Allan," she says. "There is no time for this."

Allan has the decency to look shamed. "Alright then. But don't blame me if his head accidentally hits something."

"Fine," Marian says and then turns to Little John, who coughs uncomfortably and studies the ceiling. "You are the one who knocked him out," she tells him.

"So?" Little John says.

"So choose an arm," she insists, and is relieved when he relents.

It takes a good ten minutes to get Guy situated upstairs, what with the narrow staircase and Allan's ill-judged turns. By the time Guy's head is on the pillow, Marian's head is aching. The daytime heat has made the room stuffy and hot, causing her skin to chafe wherever there is clothing. Her eyes fall to Guy's heavy black jacket, and she frowns; he will concede to nothing, not even the weather.

"Can you help me get this off of him?" she asks, and then turns to find that she's speaking to an empty room. Allan and Little John have cleared out. It's a not-so-welcome reminder of something this confrontation has made explicitly clear: being on Guy's side means being alone.

Cursing beneath her breath, she undoes the clasps of his jacket and manages to free one arm before the weight of his torso becomes too much. He falls backward, his head nearly hitting the wall, and she sucks in an anxious breath before placing a hand on Guy's brow as though this will . . . as though this will what? His skin is cool, his breathing even as it tickles the underside of her wrist, but she doesn't like the grey cast beneath his eyes. At least this will force him to sleep, she thinks.

After a few more rounds of wrangling, she manages to get both the jacket and boots all the way off. Reassured that he won't suffocate, Marian steps into the hallway to find the group of outlaws huddled around the doorway of the other chamber with worried expressions. They stop whispering as soon as they see her.

"Is Robin well?" Marian asks.

"He sleeps," Djaq says, "and that is good. I do not think we need to worry."

"I am glad," she says. "Can you check on Guy?"

Djaq's eyes widen, and she shares a nervous glance with Will before nodding. As they disappear into the room where Guy sleeps, Marian sets to playing hostess in an unfamiliar house, starting the hunt for bedding and other amenities in order to distract herself from giving voice to what everyone is thinking, but no one says.

Ahmad is a godsend; he returns with enough food to feed the outlaws twenty times over. Every so often his dark head will raise and he will say something to Djaq, who just smiles. When the group takes uneasy seats, he hovers in the background, twisting his sleeves until Djaq bends down to whisper in his ear.

"He will let us know when they wake," she says after he runs up the stairs.

They eat in silence, the table lit by a trio of candles that she liberated from the upstairs chamber. Across from her, the four outlaws hunch over their plates, tearing at their food until there is nothing left but peels and bones and crumbs. Marian had forgotten how lacking in table manners they were, had forgotten how she never knew quite what to say without Robin present to ease her into the inside jokes and friendly banter. And that was back when everything was simple, when no one would look away uncomfortably when they met her eye.

With a loud scraping, Much pushes his trencher away and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," he says. "Can I just say what we are all thinking? I can barely concentrate thinking that he's about to come downstairs and throw us in the dungeon."

Allan shifts at the end of the table. He has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since they moved Guy and Robin upstairs, but now he throws Much a withering glance. "What dungeon?" he asks.

"You know what I mean," Much says.

"I never know what you mean!"

Much rears back, offended. "Well," he huffs, "not all of us are as comfortable with him lurking about as you are." His eyes stray to Marian. "Not that I. . . well, you know. . . I meant—"

"Stop," Little John says. "Now."

"It's all right," Marian says with what she hopes is a weak smile, but inside she knows that it is not. "We should talk about what is to be done," she continues, trying to will herself back to the matter at hand by slamming them all up against the subject they are avoiding.

"I don't feel comfortable doing this without Robin," Much says.

"Robin is not listening," Djaq interjects, " and if Richard does not want peace . . .," she begins, but then trails off as though the end of the sentence is too horrible to contemplate.

Will puts a hand on her shoulder, and they hold one another's gaze longer than necessary. Marian feels the flinch of something cold and cutting flash through her heart. It takes her a few moments to recognize it for what it is: jealousy.

"Richard does not want peace," she confirms with a small cough, and then brings out the small bundle of letters that she retrieved from upstairs. Removing the twine, she spreads them before her and begins to recount what she knows, beginning with Richard's breezy forgiveness of Guy's previous treason and ending with Baldrick's appearance in Acre. "And then when I arrived here," Marian continues, "Guy confided that his orders were to impersonate a Saracen assassin and execute an arriving pilgrim. A nun. But there are others."

Djaq reaches for a letter and then studies it with great solemnity. Much and Little John grab two more. They frown and squint at the contents.

"And you trust him?" Will says, the doubt heavy in his voice. "Gisborne?"

Doubt is to be expected. It would be odd for them not to have questions after all that has passed. And yet Marian can't stop the annoyance that comes from having to vouch for Guy once again.

"He has no reason to lie," she says wearily. "There is nothing to gain from leaving."

"The money," Much offers.

"It's never been about money," she snaps, "and even if it were, he could expect more by staying in the King's favor."

The uncomfortable silence falls once again, thick as a shroud. After a few seconds, Djaq leans over and plucks the parchment from Much's hand, ignoring his protest that he wasn't finished. Her mouth tightens as her eyes roam over the spidery script.

"I believe you," she says, "or I believe that it is at least worth investigating. Where is this man now? This Baldrick?"

"He was headed to Jaffa when I nabbed the letters in camp," Allan says.

"And he hasn't returned to this house," Marian says, trying to keep her voice steady so as not to betray her eagerness to have this weight lifted from her shoulders. "I would presume that means he is still there."

"Then we should go to find him in Jaffa," Djaq says with a nod that suggests the matter is already settled.

"We go tonight," Little John says just as Much abruptly stands up, pushing his chair back with a clatter.

"Hold on just a moment," he says, hands on his hips as he surveys them all with the look of a disbelief. "Robin is upstairs, knocked unconscious. After everything he's seen us through, I think he deserves a say before we run off and make a muddle of things. And besides, I know the King," he says. "And this is . . . well, there has to be some sort of explanation for this."

"You know the King?" Allan says, voice tinged with disbelief. "He doesn't seem to know you."

"Well, I've seen the King." Much waves a hand in front of him. "You know . . . from afar."

"That's what I thought," Allan says, but Will interjects before he can continue.

"Much is right," he says.

"I am?"

Will nods. "We have to have Robin."

"But what if he refuses?" Marian asks, for it must be asked.

"We will cross that bridge if we need to," Will says, before his gaze flickers to Marian. "But he may be more open to our plan if it comes from us rather than if it comes from. . ."

He trails off, but the meaning is clear. Marian knows that she has lost her right to be Robin's first counsel, but the reminder stings nonetheless. He will never listen to her again. It's strange how this makes her feel more bereft than the idea of never seeing him again.

Djaq clears her throat and, as though sensing Marian's thoughts, says, "Thank you for all that you have done. For telling us and . . . well, for everything. Will you come to Jaffa?"

_Yes, _she wants to say. She wants to fix this somehow, to go out with one last blaze of justice before fading into whatever future is before her. But she has more than just herself to consider.

"I do not know if . . ." Marian starts before her voice abandons her. She told Guy that she would leave with him, follow him out of the mess into which she dropped him, and she can't quite quell the part of her that insists there are more than enough people to do the job. After all, how many missions did they pull off without her help? She delivered information, yes, but she's already done that. Her part has been fulfilled.

"Don't know what?" Much pipes up.

"I do not know if I will be able to join you," Marian says stiffly, with a tone that dares anyone to broach questions that she does not feel like answering.

Djaq studies Marian for a long moment, and then turns to face the outlaws. "Perhaps you should check on the horses," she tells them.

"I checked in on them before dinner, and they're fine," Allan says. "Except for that one with the rolling eye and weird mane, but that's just him. I named him Horse Much."

"Very funny," Much says. "Then I'll name the one with the big snout--"

"You should do it again," Djaq interrupts, and then she and Will share another look of great understanding. He stands and crosses to the door. Inclining his head, he waits for the others to join him.

Allan's eyes slide from Will to Djaq to Marian before comprehension dawns. "Right," he says. "Well, the horses aren't going to check themselves for a second time. Come on, Much."

Much makes a show of sighing, but complies. Little John, however, shakes his head.

"I will stay here," he says, picking up a bone and examining it for stray bits of meat.

Will frowns. "I really think that you should come check on the horses, John."

"I am no good with the horses."

Allan claps him on the shoulder. "I don't think it will matter, mate. These are imaginary horses."

Little John looks befuddled. "Imaginary horses?"

"Just come with us," Allan says, and after only a few more grumbles, Little John concedes to lumber out behind them, leaving Marian alone with an increasingly uncomfortable silence and a mounting anger that she can't quite define. Cornered, she feels cornered. She is being dealt with as though she were a problem to solve, a spiral to stop from plummeting downward.

"I should check upstairs," Marian says stiffly. "Robin and Guy will be angry when they wake, and Ahmad should not be alone."

"Please," Djaq says when Marian is already halfway from her seat. "It was not my intention to scare you away. It's just that sometimes men make it difficult to speak freely--those men in particular."

"There is nothing to say," Marian says.

"Then I will not press," Djaq says calmly. "But you do not have to leave. They will sleep for awhile yet. I would bet on it."

Marian thinks of sitting alone in the stuffy room with nothing but her thoughts and the silent shape of Guy, demanding an answer even in unconsciousness. Warily, she settles back into her chair.

"We left you in Tyre. With your relatives."

"Yes," Djaq says. "Robin found us again. Told us Gisborne was plotting and that he needed our help."

"And so you came," Marian says, surprised to hear a note of bitterness in her own voice. If Djaq notices, she doesn't acknowledge it.

"And so we came," she says and then hesitates. "He was not . . . well, he was not himself. We would ask him for details and he would fall silent. He barely spoke. This was the most life I've seen from him in days."

Marian examines the words for any sign of censure or judgment--does Djaq think that she does not feel enough guilt?--but there is none to be found.

"I am sorry that Robin is hurting," Marian says. "No one should think that I am not. But I have to move forward. I have to stop feeling in circles. . ."

Her throat constricts, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, Djaq is still waiting patiently for her to finish.

"I've chosen my path," Marian continues, gaining the courage to say what everyone has been tiptoeing around. "And that path is Guy."

Djaq's shoulders tense, and for the first time since the conversation began, the sympathetic light in her eyes fades.

"It is a difficult situation," she says, choosing each word carefully. "But perhaps things are too complicated to truly make such a--"

Marian lets out a frustrated noise before she can stop herself. She is tired of everyone acting like she is a victim or a martyr when she is only trying to do the right thing.

Djaq's brown eyes widen at her outburst. "I am just--"

"I believe that I am with child."

Marian can hardly able to believe that she said it aloud. Even though the confession makes her heart give a perilous thump, she is suddenly glad--strangely, perversely glad to have this at her disposal. It is a period at the end of this discussion. It is simple and straightforward.

Djaq's face, normally so serene, has dissolved into shock, and for a few seconds she does nothing but blink. Marian watches as she tries to recalculate her words and tactics, watches her frantically search for the fence to sit on.

"Are you certain?" Djaq says finally. "How long since--"

"Over a month," she says. And it does make sense. If she has learned anything in her history with Guy, it's that the situation will always spin wildly, irrevocably out of control at the slightest urging. She was a fool not to suspect a child the second after the sweat cooled.

"And it is . . ."

"Yes!"

Djaq continues to look rattled. Marian tries to imagine what she is thinking. . . possibly that Marian has lost her mind. Perhaps this is the consequence of trying so hard to keep her dealings with Guy a secret. She had never told anyone how often he came to visit her after he discovered she was the Nightwatchman, or even that he had discovered her activities at all. She had never told anyone how she's realized that a part of her came to look forward to the conversation he brought when Robin was away, conversation that was not chirpy pleasantries. With everyone else she had tried to pretend that their interactions were simply business, but they were not, not in the day-to-day. Weeks went by without reminders of his political side, and when the reminders finally came--as they always did--she would be overcome with guilt at the ease with which you could forget the nature of cruelty when it is your only company and when it is very obviously in love with you. And now . . . now she cannot tell if Guy is truly different or if this is just another lull between reminders. As it has been pointed out to her today, she has believed in him before and been wrong. And this time her emotions are colored by an even greater intimacy.

After what feels like an eternity, Djaq clears her throat and tries a small smile. "I am sorry," she says. "I do not know what to say."

Marian does not know what to say either. Her initial exhilaration at finally having a reason for her loyalty is starting to crack, giving way to a vague queasiness. She looks away and studies the candle burning between them, watching the pooling wax as it slowly builds a mountain along one side. The unexpected consequences of saying it aloud means that it is real, that it demands consideration.

"I am worried," Djaq says softly.

"It will be fine," Marian says, wishing it sounded more sincere. "There are still months ahead and Guy does not . . . "

She trails off, not sure how to proceed when she realizes that her reassurance--Guy does not know--is not a sensical reassurance at all. What chance is there of happiness if she does not trust him enough to tell him?

"If Robin does not agree to go, we are only five," Djaq says.

"Pardon?"

"We are only five," Djaq repeats. "Or perhaps four. I do not know where Allan stands."

"Of course" Marian says, realizing too late that Djaq wasn't speaking of her dilemma at all. She needs to to regain focus. "Robin will go," she says now, partly for her own benefit. "I know him. One second he is outraged at a suggestion, the next he embraces it."

"Normally I would agree. But this . . . this feels different." Djaq shakes her head. "I do not believe that Robin knows his king as well as he thinks he does. I watched when he visited us in the camp, curious to see this great leader who wants peace and yet remains and remains and remains. He is still devoted to his crusade, it is plain," she says before her face settles into determined lines. "Saladin believes in this treaty. It needs to hold."

"And it will," Marian says. "Think of all that you have accomplished in Nottingham. No one would have believed it possible."

"But we had Robin," Djaq says heatedly. "We had the help of the people. Now our information is secondhand and our resources limited. I am the only one of us who can read the letters, and I do not even know what this Baldrick looks like . . ." She trails off, running a hand through her short hair. "I am sorry; I told you that I would not press."

Marian wants to say that they will fix it, that she will join them and that everything will be set right. She wants to say that it doesn't matter whose loyalty she has to betray or what it means for her own future. But every time she reaches for the conviction, the belief in her own judgment that helped her in the past, she finds only lingering unease.

A hesitant shuffling comes from her right, and Marian turns to find Ahmad haunting the foot of the stairs. Djaq asks something in Arabic. The boy nods violently.

"Gisborne is stirring," Djaq tells Marian.

"I should go," Marian says, standing up and trying to ignore the rippling dread that has pooled in her stomach; Guy will be livid and a part of her does not blame him. Before she leaves, however, she casts one last look at Djaq, who is staring into the candle with faraway eyes and a grave set to her lips.

"What if I were to convince Guy to join us in Jaffa?" Marian asks, trying to keep her own skepticism from coloring the question even while she chastises herself for even suggesting it. When it is obvious that the idea makes Djaq uncomfortable, she adds, "He knows more about this than anyone. He was here with Baldrick for weeks. And he hates Richard."

Djaq studies her in the low light. "We are not to in the position to deny help from any quarter, if it is sincere," she says judiciously. "And if so, then I might have something to help with his headache."

***

Next time on Fallout:

Guy is a horrible patient

Marian is a horrible nurse

Sexytimes

I think Guy and Marian are being cute? It is weird.


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Fallout (20/?)

Author: Bookishy

Rating: R

Word Count:7800

Summary: Guy and Marian deal with the aftermath of killing the Sheriff. An AU fanfic taking place after the events of episode 2.13.

A/N: So . . . here goes nothing. I may have obsessed over this chapter a little bit, which is why I am currently posting it at 2:30AM just so I will stop obsessing over it and, you know, maybe do some work that is not posting sex scenes on the internet.

****

The first thing Guy sees when he opens his eyes is Ahmad sitting in the chair across the way, his thin arms wrapped around his legs. He's humming softly to himself, tracing the points of his kneecaps. The candle at the chair's base sputters and casts otherworldly shadows on the walls. Even though the light is feeble, it sends a bolt of pain slicing through his head. Disoriented, he tries to sit up, and Ahmad snaps to attention, grabbing the candle and darting out of the room before Guy can say anything. The slam of the door causes another wave of pain; this time it settles behind his forehead. He falls back on the pillow.

Covering his eyes, Guy tries to piece together the events that brought him here. He remembers Hood arriving, full of pigheaded righteousness; he remembers Marian's inscrutable face; he remembers pressing the sword down, not caring how deeply the blade cut into his flesh as long as it reached the man's neck; he remembers Marian rushing in between, defending him once again. Everything after that, however, is black. It couldn't have been Hood that knocked him out--he was standing on the other side of Marian, face screwed up in hatred. It couldn't have been Allan or the Saracen woman or . . . Allan's friend with the long neck. They were standing to the side. It had to be the other one, Little John, the giant.

Humiliation swarms his chest, followed by anger. Guy lurches into a sitting position, this time ignoring the way his stomach dips in protest. The objects in the room slowly start to take shape, emerging from the darkness like ships in fog. It's night, he realizes belatedly, the candles and the darkness and the indistinct forms around him suddenly making sense. The air has turned cool again, and the brush of it against his skin makes him wonder at what point he lost his jacket. He looks down. And his boots.

Questions swarm his brain. How did he come to be in bed? Where are Hood and his outlaws now? And for that matter, where is Marian? He puts his head in his hands in an effort to focus, to figure out what this means for his plans. If they had just arrived a day later--an hour--he and Marian would have been gone and Hood would have been on the way to becoming a distant memory. But now he is here--here--and Marian is no longer agreeing to go.

Suddenly, Guy is struck by a horrifying thought. He listens for the sound of conversation downstairs, the sound of laughter, even, but the house is quiet. Too quiet. She has left him here to run off with Hood and his gang. She has absconded with half of his clothing and left him here alone once again in the middle of the desert with nothing but a wasteland of a future for company. Staggering across the room, he rips open the door just as a light knock sounds.

Marian is standing on the other side, one hand raised, the other circling a thick candle of deep yellow wax. She takes a startled step backward, nearly tripping over Ahmad, who peeks out from behind her skirts with obvious trepidation.

Relief pours through him, followed by shame at his overreaction, followed by dizziness, followed by nausea. The floor is listing, he is sure of it.

"Where is Hood?" he croaks, bracing his arms against the doorjamb. The rough surface makes his hand sting.

Marian ignores his question, her brow creased in concern. "You do not look well, Guy."

"Where is Hood?" he repeats.

"Next door, still unconscious," she sighs. "Little John knocked him out soon after he did you."

Of all the responses in the world, this one he expected the least. "Unconscious?"

"Yes. He would not listen either. If you sit down, I will explain." Taking advantage of his surprise, she moves forward as though to enter, but he holds his ground, forcing her to stop with only the candle's breadth between them. Marian peers up at him, incredulous. "May I come in?"

"Where are the rest of them?"

Her eyes dart away uncomfortably. "Around."

"Where are my boots?"

"On the chair."

"Who took--"

"I did!" she says impatiently and then asks if he is finished. When he doesn't immediately respond she presses forward again, only to back away after an awkward bump of chests. This time when she studies his face, her expression is questioning.

"I thought that you had left me," he confesses and then regrets it immediately. It was supposed to sound accusatory, not grateful to be wrong.

"I would not do that," she murmurs, and Guy must be hallucinating the flash of hurt that accompanies the words, for she soon throws a nervous glance down the hall. When she next speaks, her voice has returned to a brisk efficiency. "Really, can we continue this inside? I do not think that you should be on your feet."

Placing a hand on his chest, she gives a gentle push that he resists on principle before finally relenting. She brushes by him, crossing the dark room and setting her candle on the small table to the side of the bed. Its light spills over the pillows and turns her into a slim silhouette.

"How do you feel?" she asks, cupping the flame until it has settled.

"Like I was struck in the head by an overgrown peasant," he snaps. He would like to say more, but his head is pounding so hard that he can feel the thrum of blood behind his eyelids. Trying hard to remain steady, he makes his way to the foot of the bed. "That is how I feel," he mutters, sitting down and rubbing his eyes.

Suddenly, she is beside him, slipping her palm beneath his wrists and spanning his brow. He does not know what she is checking for--he was clubbed from behind not taken with a fever--but he is loath to tell her that. Her skin is cool, and for a second the dull pain disappears beneath the pleasure that always comes when she touches him without warning. It strikes him that he should be angrier than he is, asking questions and demanding answers. He will, he tells himself, just as soon as his relief has dissipated and he's gathered his wits.

"I have something that might help," she says, pulling her hand away and looking about the room. "Or Ahmad does. Where is . . ."

She heads to the door and peers into the hallway. After a few muffled words, Ahmad appears, a cup in one hand, a shallow basin balanced on the other. Marian gestures for him to enter, but he stays rooted in place. Every so often his gaze creeps toward Guy. As soon as Marian takes the items from him, he disappears. Marian looks at Guy as though it were his fault the boy is skittish.

"What?" he says.

She sighs. "Nothing. Drink this," she orders, holding the cup forward until he is forced to take it.

"What is it?" he asks, tipping it to the side experimentally. The dark black liquid barely moves.

"Djaq says that it will help your headache."

"Who is Djaq?"

Marian gives him a disbelieving look. "Djaq," she says. "The woman downstairs. The woman who was traded for your freedom a year ago."

He thrusts it back toward her. "No. It smells like poison."

"And what does poison smell like?" she asks.

"That."

"Suit yourself," Marian says. She sets it on the table with a hollow thunk, and then turns away to busy herself with the basin, dipping a cloth in the water.

Guy says nothing, keeping his eyes trained on her profile. As always, she is frustratingly self-contained, carrying herself as though she were a goblet on the verge of spilling. If he did not know better, he would think that they were back in her chambers at Nottingham, having one of those opaque conversations that always ended with him feeling as though he were missing some vital clue to existence. She would listen and she would respond, and after he had forgiven her Nightwatchman activities, she would even smile on occasion. But she would never . . . relent. Suddenly, he finds his missing anger.

"You should not talk to the outlaws," he says. He should not have to do this, he thinks. He should not have to break through her shell of indifference again and again and again, not after everything he has done.

Marian's hands still. "They are no longer outlaws."

"They will be so again if they try to interfere with Richard's plans," he warns.

"Then that is a risk they will take," Marian says quickly--too quickly--confirming his suspicions in one fell swoop.

"Let me guess," Guy says. "They will leave at dawn for Jaffa, find Baldrick and his pilgrims, and then stop the treaty from being overturned."

Marian confirms nothing, just squeezes the excess liquid from the cloth and holds it toward him.

"I am right," he says smugly, letting the rag drip into his lap.

"You are right because it is the right thing to do," she says and then tosses the cloth at his chest. "For your forehead, unless you think that the water is poison as well."

Guy catches her wrist before she can turn away. "We are still leaving, Marian," he says. "It is what we agreed on. It is what is best."

"Is it?" she says, looking down at him with a new intensity. "Where will we go?"

Her interest catches him unprepared. "I told you," he hedges. "We will follow the coast until we find somewhere far enough from Richard's influence."

"How will we live?"

"There is money enough in that chest to last us ten years."

"That is not ours," she says, and then sits beside him on the bed. "And even if it were, what would we do if Richard is here for more than ten years? What will we do?"

"I will figure something out!" he yells, loud enough that his head begins to hurt once more. "All you need to do is say that you are keeping your word."

Marian opens her mouth as if to speak, but then closes it again. When she finally finds the words, they are not what he wants to hear.

"You are right that I agreed," she begins calmly. "But that was before--"

"Before what?" he asks. "Before Hood arrived?"

"No," she says pointedly. "Before there were enough people to make going to Jaffa an option."

She hesitates as if deliberating whether or not to continue. "We do not even know if Robin will agree to go," she offers finally.

"Hood will not believe his precious king could be involved in something so ignoble," he sneers, wishing that something would stick to the man, just once. He had been half afraid that Hood would suddenly vow to take Richard down singlehandedly just to spite him.

"Perhaps," Marian says, infuriatingly noncommittal. Guy had studied her reactions downstairs. When he should have been making sure that Hood wasn't going to lunge at him with a sword, he had watched Marian, searching for small betrayals of affection now that he knew it had once existed . . . perhaps still exists. The question slips out before he can stop it.

"Have you been to see him?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

She gives him a long look. "You cannot be serious."

"Given the history," he insists, "I do not think it is an illogical question."

"Given what is in front of your face, I think that it is! For one thing, he's still unconscious. For another, I honestly doubt that I am the person he wants to see. You saw him downstairs."

It is yet another non-answer, one that places all responsibility at Hood's door and leaves her feelings out of it. All of a sudden he stands, abruptly enough that the room wobbles a little.

"Guy, please, you should really . . ."

"Say that you are leaving with me," he orders. "Say that you no longer care for him."

Marian freezes. He's seen the expression on her face before, but he has never before realized it for what it is. She looks . . . trapped. Hunted. Frustrated, he rubs his eyes, and then keeps rubbing, possessed by the vain hope that when he stops, he will open them to find that he is back in Nottingham and this whole thing is just one long terrible nightmare. But when he finally lowers his hand, all he sees is this same dim, forsaken room and Marian, her eyes fixed on his face with confusion.

"You're bleeding," she says.

"What?"

She stands and crosses to him, raising a hand to tentatively rub at something on his cheek. "You are bleeding," she repeats and then frowns. "But where . . ." She stops to run her eyes over his body, eventually stopping on his hand. Grabbing it, she flips it over and then pulls him toward the light.

The cut is deep, a small, red ravine running across the landscape of his palm. Now that they are both looking at it, the wound starts to throb.

Marian looks up at him in worry. "This is deep."

"It is fine," he says shortly, trying to pull his hand away. He is sick of being assuaged by every little gesture of caring she deigns to show him, not when she avoids the things that matter. But Marian holds on.

"No, it is not. It needs to be cleaned," she insists, studying it more closely. "And possibly stitched. I will get Djaq."

"I do not want her interference!"

"But this is serious. We should really--"

"No, Marian."

"Fine," she snaps. "I will bandage it, and we will hope that your hand does not fall off."

Truth be told, his hand falling off is the least of his problems. "Do not overextend yourself on my account," he says bitterly.

"Would you please just sit?" she asks, and for the first time since the conversation began he hears a shard of emotion break through the reserve.

Reluctantly, he resumes his place on the bed. Marian sits beside him, balancing the basin next to her hip so that it does not spill. The water is tepid, and the cut stings as soon as the cloth touches it.

"When did this happen?" Marian asks as she begins to daub. It only takes a few moments for the red to overtake the white fabric. If anything, this is making it bleed more.

"When I was pushing the sword toward Hood's throat," he says curtly. "I should have cut his head off."

Her hands only pause for a second before she turns to rinse the cloth. "That would solve nothing," she says before resuming her ministrations.

"Wouldn't it?" he says darkly, but Marian refuses to look up. Her hair has fallen forward, and as she squints at the wound, it slips over the side of his hand and brushes his thigh. The candlelight is not helping; the flickering of the flame creates dramatic shadows that twine over her neck and then vee toward her chest. Images from the night before come unbidden; the weight of her in his arms, the feel of her breast as she arched against the same palm she is touching now. It was as if she were a different person. There was a time when he had thought that things would be different once he bedded her, that it would rid him of this uncertainty because it would mean that she was his. But it has only made him less sure of his footing--now when she reverts, she only feels more distant. It is Hood. It is all Hood.

"There," Marian says primly, pressing the cloth against his palm. "It is clean. I do not trust myself to sew it, so once the bleeding has stopped we will wrap it and hope for the best." She glances up with an expression that suggests further chastisement, but she must see something on his face because she sucks in a quick, flustered breath and then looks away.

"I can hold it," Guy says.

"What?"

"The cloth. I can hold it," he says, taking her wrist and removing her hand before continuing brusquely. "You can leave. I do not need your pity or your half answers."

She looks at him, surprised. "You do not have my pity. And I do not want to leave."

His heart gives a traitorous lurch; he wishes he could tear it out. But when he responds, he manages to keep the doubt in his voice thick. "Really?"

"Yes, really!"

Guy studies her face, seeing all the signs of sincerity but unable to trust them. "Then perhaps you should answer my question and stop playing games," he snaps.

She throws her hands up. "Which question? The one I have answered a thousand times before?"

"Never to satisfaction."

"Because I shouldn't have to!" she explodes. "I have stayed by your side. I have followed you across the desert. I defend you to the point that everyone looks at me like I am a madwoman, and yet you still suspect me."

"I have reason."

"And I have reason not to trust you with my answers, not when you ask your questions like an executioner." When he doesn't immediately respond, she shakes her head. "I am sorry for my deceptions in the past. I am," she insists when he scoffs in disbelief. "But if you will not accept my apology and the truth of my actions, then there is nothing I can do to convince you."

"You could leave with me tomorrow."

Marian stands up so quickly that the basin clatters to the floor, splashing water over their feet. She lets out an impassioned string of curses Guy never even suspected she knew. He can only stare, dumbfounded, as she bends to retrieve it.

"Can I ask you a question?" she says suddenly, looking up with flashing eyes and flushed cheeks. Guy is about to say that no, actually, she can't ask him a question considering that she never answers his, but Marian doesn't wait. "Is leaving tomorrow what you genuinely think we should do, or is it another one of your tests?"

Caught off guard, he can only say, "Tests?"

"Yes," Marian says when she stands. "Tests."

"I do not know what you mean."

"Is this a test of my loyalty?" she asks, the last word dripping with disdain.

"I do not see why it is wrong to expect loyalty from my wife," he says coldly, noticing how his own word makes her shoulders stiffen. The truth is that she was right last night when she said that there were those who would consider them married, especially in light of their former exchanged vows. He has avoided confirming it because he's noticed how the concept makes her retreat, no matter that she seems to have no problem playing the part otherwise. But now, when she turns away to set the basin on the nightstand, he adds, "I do not see why it is wrong to expect loyalty from my wife after all that I have given up."

For a second, a shadow of guilt crosses over her face, but it is gone by the time she speaks. "And what exactly is it that you have given up? Being the lackey of a madman who would not stop until he had leeched every drop of humanity from you? More sins against people who had no way of protecting themselves? Universal revilement?" She shakes her head. "No one else likes you, Guy. If it weren't for me, you would still be downstairs for lack of someone willing to carry you up ten stairs."

"I do not care what they think," he spits, but the idea that she would be embarrassed of him rankles.

"I care!" she yells. "I care that I have a husband who is not feared or hated. I care that I am not treated like a leper any time your name is mentioned."

"Had I assassinated Richard I would have power and position by now," he says. "We would have power and position. And then--"

"Oh, hang power and position! Yes, that's what I said. Hang it. I like you better without them," she says, and then looks slightly affronted by her own outburst before tilting her chin up. "I mean it. I am happier to be married to you now than I ever was in Nottingham."

"Now when I have nothing?" he asks incredulously.

"Yes!" Without a warning, she sits back down beside him, grabbing his hand hard enough that it begins to sting anew. "Because now I see someone who would rather start a new life with nothing than fall into another situation where he is forced to do something that he does not wish to do. And that is admirable."

She stops, her eyes bright as she watches him expression that is part hope, part nervousness, and part excitement. He looks away, suddenly afraid that if he keeps looking at her he will agree to anything. He does not want to be moved by her words.

"If it is so admirable," he says bitterly, "then why do you refuse to join me?"

"Because I do not want to begin a new life while regretting the old. And you were right," she continues when he does not speak. "There were times in Nottingham that I acted without giving thought to the consequences. I believed Robin blindly. I treated you abominably. But I did it because I believed that there was a way to fix things. And I know that there is a way to fix things now, if you will only help us. You are the one who spent time with Baldrick; you are the one who knows the most about what they are planning to do."

"Thwarting Richard is a death sentence, Marian."

"Not necessarily. You more than anyone else should know how much the outlaws are able to accomplish. They can stop it," she insists, pressing in closer. "We can stop it. And then I will follow you anywhere, follow you gladly."

Eagerness is rolling off of her in waves. Turning to look at her, Guy feels the familiar mixture of hope and guilt and fear and hope that only Marian can inspire--guilt because he will never be able to match her enthusiasm or her unshakeable compassion for people who have done nothing to deserve it; fear that one day she will finally come to realize this; and hope that she never does.

"Please," she says when he does not respond. "I have always believed in you. I want us to . . . I want to be . . . I want you and I to . . ." She closes her eyes as though frustrated with her own sudden lack of eloquence. When she opens them again, she simply says, "I do not want us to be on opposite sides any longer. I am tired of fighting."

Her eyes flit over his face, desperately searching out an answer. It would be so easy to say yes and make her face light up. But he has been here before, the moment where he agrees to do as she asks and then everything stays the same. The moment where she dangles a promise in front of him that turns out to be yet another means to one of her ends.

"And what if I say no?" he asks. "What if I am tired of conditions to your affection?"

The light in her eyes dims as she pulls away. Guy feels something dark and bitter crawl its way into his throat. This is the moment of truth, and it is going to kill him. As the silence stretches on, all he can hear is the sputter of the candle and the faint echo of someone laughing outside. What will he do if she says that she is going to Jaffa no matter what? He does not think he has the energy or the clout to fight against her any longer, to force her in directions she does not want to go. Perhaps he will find Baldrick, he thinks, and see if it is still possible to carry out this mission for Richard, but then that option feels distasteful as well. Perhaps he will just sit here forever until he rots.

He is so caught up in his thoughts that at first he does not hear what Marian is saying. He has to ask her to repeat it.

"I said that I will leave with you tomorrow," she says, and while her voice is subdued, it is also steady. "Go wherever you want to go. You deserve that much from me."

There is no way to describe the feeling that breaks over him other than joy. But when he tries to find a corresponding happiness on her face, he is met only with a cool reserve that is marred by the way she swipes surreptitiously at her cheeks.

"And it will be fine," she continues, almost as a reassurance to herself. "Especially if they are able to convince Robin."

The fact that she has transferred her hope to Hood--Hood, who just hours ago was crying downstairs because he couldn't believe his King would be so conniving--pokes a hole in his inflating hope. So does the way she will not meet his eyes.

"Marian," he starts and tries to place a hand on her thigh but she stands and moves away.

"I hope this will at least prove my loyalty once and for all," she says, and while her words contain no bitterness, they also contain no warmth. Guy suddenly remembers sitting at the table with her this morning, her strange and dispassionate distance that rattled him more than anything she had ever said to him in anger.

"You should rest," she says, beginning to walk away. "I imagine we will want to get an early start."

Guy catches the back of her skirt, even while his brain is shouting that he is a fool, he is a fool, he is a fool.

"Please let go," she says, swatting at his hand with something more than annoyance.

"We can go to Jaffa," he says.

She stops mid-swat to look at him in shock. "What?"

"We can see if there is something to be done. But if there is not, then we will leave. I do not want to die for this," he adds gruffly, even though he is fairly certain that is the most likely outcome. At least being dead will save him the trouble of having to figure out where in hell to take them.

"Are you serious?" she finally asks, with so much intensity that Guy wonders if he has once again said the wrong thing. Perhaps he should have acted happier about it, less resigned. The outlaws always seem improportionately pleased with everything they do.

"Yes?" he tries.

"You will go to Jaffa with me?" she asks, breathless. "With the outlaws?"

For a second his resolve wavers; he had forgotten that going to Jaffa with the outlaws would include the outlaws. "I suppose."

"But you said--"

"I changed my mind," he says uncomfortably. "But if Bonchurch does not stay away from me I swear--"

He does not get to finish his warning, for Marian is lunging forward, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him, hard. By the time he has gathered enough wits to kiss back, she is already pulling away.

"Your hand!" she says. "I forgot to bandage it."

"I do not mind," he murmurs, trying to resume the kiss, but she scrambles away to pull a clean cloth from the jumble on the nightstand. Once she is standing in front of him once again, she gently wraps it around his palm, finishing it off with an awkward, tumorous knot on the side. Afterwards, she tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles.

"That will have to do for now. I really wish that you would let Djaq look at it." She pauses as if suddenly struck by a thought. "Djaq! I should tell her. There is so much to do."

She starts to turn away but Guy places both hands on her waist and pulls her between his knees, reluctant to lose this moment to what will surely be the regret of tomorrow. "Stay," he says. "It will keep."

"But if we leave first thing--"

"Stay," he urges, sliding his hands up until his thumbs are brushing the undersides of her breasts. Her breasts which are, coincidentally, level with his eyes.

Marian's breath hitches--she's realized his intentions--and Guy studies her face. He has never gone so far as to initiate their congress, only capitalized on the moments when she has had a point to prove. But now he slides his uninjured hand around to her back, he tugs the top tie of her lacings loose. When she came downstairs this morning wearing the dress from Nottingham, he thought it might be a message to him that they were back to being on opposite divides. Now, however, the idea that he is undressing the Marian that once rejected him again and again makes this a thousand times more arousing . . . and that thousand becomes a million when she doesn't move away.

"Your hand," she blurts when he moves to pull at the second.

"I have two."

"Your head."

"Is feeling better," he says. He has managed to undo half of the lacings--many of which she had helpfully skipped this morning. When his fingers brush against the cool skin of her back, he raises his eyebrows, surprised to find no underlinen in the way.

"The last one tore," she says, slightly defensive.

He pulls loose the second to last tie. "I am not complaining."

Marian doesn't respond, just closes her eyes and swallows. Encouraged, he tries to pull her closer, but she puts a hand on his shoulder to stay him.

"Guy, there are people downstairs. And in the next room."

"Allan was upstairs last night. He could have come down at any time and caught us," he says, getting a small thrill at the way her lips part in surprise. She hadn't thought of that, but he had. It has also not escaped him how glorious it will feel to have her wrapped around him while Hood is in the next room.

"Still," she says, and then acts like she is about to say more until he loosens the last tie and slips his hand in to span the small of her back. This time she lets him draw her closer.

"I can be quiet," he says, remembering how easy it is to dare her into things. "Can you?"

"Of course I can be quiet," she snaps, looking down at him with flushed cheeks. There is surely something wrong with him that her annoyance only makes him want her more.

"Then why not?" he says. "We might as well enjoy our last days."

"I told you. We are not going to die. The outlaws have succeeded time and time--" She stops when he chuckles. "You are frustrating me on purpose," she says, sounding baffled.

"Perhaps," he says, and then drags her into a kiss before she can say anything else. She resists at first--she always does when she is not the one to initiate it--but he is relieved when she relaxes after only a few beats and kisses him back. Tentatively, at first, but then with increasing passion, as though it were a contest. When she presses her body forward, he lets himself fall back on the bed, pulling her on top of him. She makes a small moue against his lips, and then cuts off the kiss.

"Really," she says. "You could barely stand before, we should not--"

He rolls them over abruptly, but the swift movement makes his vision spin. He blinks down at her, trying to get his eyes to focus on the face of the woman beneath him. There is a brief moment where she has two noses.

"Your eyes just crossed, Guy."

"It's fine," he insists, even while he tells himself no more rolling.

She frees a hand from where it is trapped between their bodies and pokes him in the back of the head, smiling smugly when he is unable to stop a startled oath.

"See?" she says.

"To be honest, Marian, bedding a woman doesn't normally involve getting smacked in the back of the head."

She pushes herself up on her elbows. "There will be time for this later. You need to rest."

"I don't think that is what I need," he says, reaching down until he locates the hem of her skirt. He slips his fingers beneath it, finding her calf and sliding his hand upward. By the time he passes her knee she is visibly holding her breath, but when he slides his palm over to the soft skin of her inner thigh, when he can feel the heat of her against his knuckles, she grabs his wrist through the material.

"Rest," she says, her voice a little shaky.

Guy has to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a stream of curses. Tomorrow they will be on the road, most likely surrounded by the group of idiots downstairs, and there will be very little opportunity to have her in a proper bed or even at all. He turns his head to the wall, trying to figure out how to convince her that the real travesty would be to waste one of the small periods of time when he seems to have done something right. His eye falls on the cup of liquid that she brought him. Removing his hand from her skirts, he reaches over to grab it and then empties it in one gulp.

"There. Healed," he says, just as the taste of what he's just downed floods his mouth. It's as though he's made a beverage out of the pond. Marian bursts into laughter, and for a second he can only stare down at her.

"I do not see what is so funny," he finally growls.

"Your face," she says.

"I am glad that I amuse you," he says, straightening up to hide the fact that he is suddenly feeling ridiculous.

"Oh, stop," she says, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging until he falls back down. She wraps her hand around the back of his neck and kisses him. After a few seconds she pulls away, mouth pursed.

"What now?" he asks.

"That does taste repulsive."

"Right, well, I told you it was poison," he says. He thinks he sees her roll her eyes, but she does not halt his hand when it resumes its mission beneath her skirt. When he reaches her thigh he braces himself on his elbow to watch her face. Her lashes lower, and her breathing becomes jagged. She is not stopping him, not even when he reaches the apex of her legs and slips a finger into her warmth. Marian emits a small gasp as her body tightens around him. The shoulders of her loosened dress are slipping down, revealing a creamy curve of breast. Marian in disarray is always a sight to behold. If he had his way she would never be orderly again.

"I want you too much. I have always wanted you too much," he breathes. When she doesn't immediately respond, he slips another finger inside her. "You want this too. Say that you want this too."

Her fingers grab the material of his shirt as her eyes flutter open. He sees her indecision, has time to wonder if it is for a reason other than his injuries. "I do," she says after a beat passes, "but--"

"Marian, if my head falls off, it will be worth it," he insists, and when she has no further protest, he pulls his shirt over his shoulders, and throws it to the side. The rush of air causes the weak flame of the candle to sputter out, plunging the room into darkness. This is unbelievable.

"Wait here," he says impatiently, but before he can move he hears the rustle of skirts just as Marian's fingers wrap around his wrist.

"Leave it," she says. "Please."

"I want to see you."

"Our eyes will adjust," she says, letting go of his hand to tentatively run her own up and down his chest. She doesn't stop at his navel, and her fingers brush over the place where he strains against his leather--accidentally?--before darting away.

Maybe she is right about the candle.

Falling forward, Guy finds her lips as he attempts to undress her in the dark. By the time he manages to free her from her bodice, he can make out the angles of her features, the spill of dark hair across the sheets and the duskiness of her nipples against the pale wash of her skin. She lifts her hips to help him slide her dress down her legs and then kicks it free. When he braces himself on one arm to fumble with the ties to his trousers and remove them, she scoots to the head of the bed.

Her breathing quickens and sets a brisk rhythm as soon as he hovers above her. After everything, after all of her bravery with him last night in front of the fire, there are still these moments of nervousness. He sees this side of her so rarely that for a second he does nothing.

"Are you going to kiss me or stare at me?" she asks with a shaky laugh

Truth be told, if she were any other woman he would already be close to coming. Once a woman is willing, there's really no point in dragging it out. Until Marian, he would have thought that if you had bedded a woman once, it wouldn't be so much trouble to do it again.

"Which do you prefer?" he asks.

"A kiss!"

"Then I will stare at you."

There's a long pause, and Guy wonders if he's said something wrong. But then Marian asks, "Did you make a jest?"

"It happens occasionally," he says, bending down to give her a kiss that lands mostly on her bottom lip as he tucks an arm behind her head and moves one hand down to cover her breast. He lets his thumb toy with her nipple as he murmurs, "I told you once that you do not know me as well as you think."

"Perhaps not," she says after another long pause and then kisses him again, opening her lips to let him deepen the embrace. His hand slides lower, stopping when his palm spans the gentle swell of her stomach. All of a sudden she tenses.

Guy pulls away, realizing too late that the ridge his fingertips have been tentatively exploring is the scar that he gave her. "I did not know that it was you," he says quickly, trying to remember if he has ever apologized for . . . well, for stabbing her in the stomach.

"What?" she asks, her voice thick with confusion.

"The scar. I did not know that it was you."

He hears her suck in a breath. "It doesn't matter. That is not what. . ." she trails off.

"Then--"

"Never mind," she says, arching her hips so that his palm slips lower, and all of his questions are swallowed by the fact that his hand is once again buried in the heat of her. She moans against his mouth when his fingers begin to explore. "There," she says, reaching between them to grab his wrist. "Stay there."

He does as she asks, crooking his finger and barely believing his luck when she bucks against his palm. When she opens her legs further, he takes his hand away, wanting to keep her eager.

"I said stay there," she breathes.

"Sometimes we don't get everything we want," he growls, kissing her neck.

Her sound of indignant disbelief cuts through the darkness followed by the inhale of a deep breath. And then, before he can make out what she's doing, her soft hand is gliding over the planes of his abdomen and wrapping around his cock.

Guy curses at the sudden throb of lust that courses through his body, and Marian draws her hand back as though burned. He is having trouble swallowing, but he manages to guide her hand back to him and roll to his side. She watches his face as she begins to grip him, first slowly and then with increasing speed. Every so often she stops to run her fingers up the length of him, obviously delighted when she can make him shudder. What she lacks in technique, she makes up for by being Marian, and by the time he realizes that he is studying the dark bow of her lips and wondering what good deed he would have to do to coax her to use them instead, he is close to the end.

Abruptly he rolls them back over, pinning her wrists by her head and shaking off a brief wave of dizziness. Her pulse flutters against his thumbs, and even in the dark he can tell that she is startled.

"Did I do something wrong?" Marian asks.

"No," he says.

She sounds bemused. "Then will you give me my hands back?"

"Do I have to?" he says without thinking, for this has been one of his fantasies for the past three years, to have her spread beneath him, entirely at his mercy. Her bare thighs hug his hips, and all he needs to do is guide himself forward and it will be so. In fact he can already feel her, wet and waiting.

Marian doesn't answer, but when he slides his hands up to her palms, she clutches back. Their fingers interlock, his bandage rough between their hands. He moves his hips forward, testing the waters, and she arches up.

"I want--"

"Yes," she says, and then sucks in a breath when he enters her.

"Are you all right?"

He sees her head move, but she doesn't say anything aloud. Is that a nod?

"Marian?"

"I am fine," she whispers. "It is just still . . . unfamiliar."

He does not know what to make of that, but after a few seconds she bumps her hips up and he does not feel as though he needs to.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, and she does, but he grabs the back of her thigh with one hand and angles it higher so that he can sink deeper. She is tight and hot around him, and when he begins to thrust downward she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back, exposing the column of her throat. He finds that he loves the way she gasps every time he changes pace, and the way that she digs her nails into his shoulders and tries to draw him closer.

When he is getting close, he works a hand between their bodies and finds the spot that had made her moan before. She shudders as soon as he touches it, and her hand moves to tangle in the curls at his neck. Soon she begins to make noises in the back of her throat, and it isn't long before she tilts up and cries out, her chest heaving. He feels her legs tightening around him, and he moves faster until he is ready to let go, and for a moment there is nothing at all wrong. Nothing in the world.

Things come back to him slowly. His nose is buried in her neck, and her hair creates a fragrant tangle around him. Every time she inhales, her breasts brush his chest, and he is suddenly brought back to the last time they were in this position, when she pushed him away almost immediately. He is tempted to roll away now, to save himself the flinch of her retreat, but instead he pulls back and peers down at her, trying to make out her expression.

"Marian, I--"

"I meant what I said," she interrupts quickly.

"About what?"

"I like you better like this. Now. . . Here."

His first reaction is a quick frustration. Of course she likes him better, now that he is doing what she asks. If she would have only given him a chance in Nottingham, he could have shown her this side while he still had two coins to rub together. And liking is not loving and he does not know what he has left to give. But all he says is, "Do you?"

"Yes," she says. "You are different than I thought. This is . . . different than I thought."

"I like you better here as well," he says, and is perversely pleased when she stiffens a little. She doesn't like it either.

"How am I different?" she asks, and that is when Guy realizes he doesn't have a good answer. She repeats the question.

"You're . . ."

"What?"

"Nakeder," he says, and even though he didn't mean for it to be funny, she gives a choked laugh. She is about to say something else when there is the sound of a loud clomping on the stairs, followed by a few hissed commands to be quiet and what Guy thinks is the annoying one's voice asking if they think that Robin is awake yet and wondering where Marian is. This last question is followed by a long silence, and the next thing he knows, Marian is pushing at his shoulders and wiggling out from beneath him. He watches her frantically wrap herself in the sheet and lie there, still and terrified. She stays that way, even after the footsteps descend the staircase and the voices fade into a dull hum. The specter of tomorrow has intruded sooner than expected. He is already starting to regret his decision.

"Marian--"

"We should sleep," she says, in the clipped tone that always signals the end of a conversation for her.

Guy rolls to his back, studying the cracks on the ceiling and feeling the familiar coldness descend. Suddenly, her hand finds his arm in the blackness. She whispers his name.

"What?" he says darkly.

"Thank you. For going. It is the right thing to do."

Guy says nothing because there is nothing to say--at the moment, he couldn't care less about the right thing to do. And he is fairly certain that she knows it.


End file.
